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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988513">Carajillo II</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust'>indiavolowetrust</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Carajillo [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shall We Date?: Obey Me!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Light Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:48:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24988513</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolowetrust/pseuds/indiavolowetrust</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Carajillo. A coup d'etat has been staged in the Celestial Realm. The human proposes a plan to halt the impending war.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Carajillo [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817053</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. SEPTEMBER 27TH: 6h 20m 17s 00ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Even in slumber her face is lined with worry. There is no end to her brooding, it seems. She whimpers softly against the pillow again and again, her cheeks stained with tears, and her frail body trembles with an overwhelming, oppressive fear. She should not suffer her inordinate sensitivity to the cold as she had in life, given her state as a soul, and still she shivers. Still she cries out in the long hours of the night, her psyche revealing the damage I had inflicted upon it. Her fingers curl against the sheets, searching for purchase. I slip my hand beneath hers, entwining her smaller fingers with mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I use my free hand to trace the soft angles of her face. Carving out the silhouette of her visage in the darkness. I have witnessed the image thousands of  times before -- the dark, doe-like eyes, olive skin, and pitch-black curls spilling over her shoulders -- and I can only hope to have the pleasure to witness the image thousands of times more. If she would have me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I press my palm to her cheek, cradling the cold skin there. She sighs. Her eyelids begin to flutter, the clutches of her nightmare finally releasing her, and it is only moments before she regards me. She blinks, the vestiges of sleep clouding her perception. Her fear slowly but surely retreating back into her psyche.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t sleep,” she murmurs, nuzzling into my touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither do you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but I’m not the one that has to be up all day,” she counters, her tone languid. The shadows under her eyes would suggest that she has slept little as well, undoing the implications of her argument. “You’ll have about an hour or so, I think, if you go to sleep now. You should at least try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I?” I ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you should.” She begins to turn away from me, adjusting her position in the bed, but I do not allow her to do so. Her eyes flicker to mine with slight annoyance. “Barbatos --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I roll on top of her before she can finish, my arms caging her in. Already I can feel the sensation of my true form coming to light -- my horns rupture through the sides of my skull, my tail forms from the bottom of my spine, and my teeth lengthen, growing sharper with each increment. Maria stares at me for a moment, wide-eyed. All vestiges of sleep seem to have simply vanished from her conscience, her prior lethargy having succumbed to the realization of my intentions. My tail flicks away a stray curl at her brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, pressing my hardness against her. I can feel the outline of her folds through the thin fabric of her underwear, her channel already beginning to slaver with need. “I would be happy to explain, if you have a need for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She furrows her brows. “It’s too early for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your reaction seems to indicate otherwise.” My tail all but peels off the flimsy garment from her form, flinging it elsewhere in the room, and I lean down to her throat the nibble at the sensitive skin there. One of my teeth grazes against the delicate area, inciting a shiver to run through her body. “If I didn’t know any better,” I continue, planting small kisses along her throat and collarbone, “I would say you had anticipated this. This is what you want, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t -- don’t tease me like that,” she says, biting her lip. She barely stifles a gasp as I latch onto one of her breasts through the fabric of the borrowed shirt, sucking aggressively at the flesh beneath. “Just hurry up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I meet her gaze, taking in the image of her lustful expression. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She yelps in surprise as I place her thighs onto my shoulders. My mouth envelops her small clit, sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, and my tongue moves to drag itself languidly across the folds of her dripping gash. Five minutes and twenty-three seconds into the act, Maria’s soft moans and breathless sighs saturate the air of the bedroom. Intoxicating me. Seven minutes and forty seconds into the act, she is writhing beneath my assault, attempting to angle me just so to quicken the course of her release. I deny her. Ten minutes and two seconds into the act, pleading, quiet words depart from her mouth in a continuous stream, begging that I take her. Hopelessly, endlessly urging that I do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What am I but an instrument for her wishes? Who am I to deny the indulgence of her pleasure?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I need no other encouragement. It is only a moment before I position myself at her entrance, pressing against the soft, velvet folds -- and then I plunge myself into her, fully sheathing myself into her channel. Her name is a prayer on my lips, hanging in the space between the both of us. I do not allow it to remain as such. I press deeper into her, adjusting the angle of my thrusts. Wrapping my arms around her. She gasps, her body squirming in response to the sudden accommodation, and I make an effort to restrain myself. Even in death, it would appear that her body is too frail for me to treat with ultimate fervor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I will not inflict pain on her again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her pupils are unfocused in the dark, the barest of a wince coming over her features. It takes thirty-eight seconds for it to cease. It takes ten seconds for me to convince myself that I am not harming her with the act. It is only then that I begin to shift myself in and out of her, studying her expression with every movement. The impulse to simply thrust into her with abandon is compelling, my own need threatening to overtake my actions -- but my control is much too strong to succumb to such things. My fear of tearing her apart again is even greater.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her visage is awash with the light of the false moon when I position myself just above her once more, the illumination playing at her soft features. The everlasting darkness of the Devildom permeates the space around us, yes, but it is as there is a light that emanates from within her form. As if some shard of the false moon had lodged itself within her, her frail body chosen as its bearer. I am only fortunate enough to gaze upon it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a soft, quiet copulation. This time, I do not take anything from her. Instead, I give and give and give until there is no more of myself to offer. I listen to every whispered plea, every undulation of her form, every soft word that escapes her lips. After what I had done -- after the horrifying realization that she had been aware of my actions -- I cannot bring myself to treat her in such a manner again. I have locked away that selfish, more desperate part of myself, caging in the dark thoughts. I have long swallowed the key, if only for her sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you do it?” she asks. Her voice is oddly resonant. Distorted. “I don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For you,” I respond, pressing small kisses to her throat. “I did everything for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel her shake her head, the bare skin pressed to mine suddenly moistened with tears. “No. No, no, not that. How could you do it? How could you let it happen?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I draw back from her form to regard her, lifting a finger to wipe away her tears. Preparing to dash away whatever sadness or fatigue has befallen her. The false moonlight spills over her small form once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is not crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her throat erupts with that horrible, vivid crimson, the sheets beneath her becoming stained with the liquid. Blood drips freely from her mouth as she chokes, wheezing gasps escaping from her lips. I watch with horror as the blood encapsulates my own hands, holding me in place as the hue travels up the contours of my body. In moments there is nothing but that violent crimson visible in the space around us, drowning me in the screaming, intense hue. Forcing me to gaze upon her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is almost nothing but pure, unbridled hatred in her expression. Blinding rage. Yet amongst the anger, the disgust, there is also the hint of pity. Blood spills from her mouth when she speaks once more, the iron suffusing the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could you let me so suffer so many times?” she cries. “I felt it! I felt everything! How could you be so selfish? Why couldn’t you just let me die? I hate you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hate you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hate you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hate you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The room shatters, the shards of the windowpane skewering through both her body and mine. I try to look away, to tear my eyes away from this being that cannot possibly be her -- but some unseen force holds my skull in its vice-like grip. I am forced to stare at the deserved wrath that lies in her gaze as my limbs are torn away from my body, the flesh ravaged by some beast that lies in the blood. Devouring me. My bones crush easily within its jaws, my skull cracking beneath the force. I cannot fight the entity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is only the dark, seething wrath in her eyes as she immolates me. Even when there is nothing left of me, my bones crushed to dust and my flesh stripped from my body, I can feel the weight of her hatred.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>My heart threatens to burst from my chest when I finally awaken, a trickle of cold sweat running down the nape of my neck. The vestiges of the nightmare still cling to my conscience, even moments after, and I find myself scanning the darkness of the room for any signs of danger. Any hint of that violent, horrible crimson. My gaze flickers around the corners of the sparsely decorated room, searching. But there is nothing of the sort to be found. My desk and nightstand lie bare, the doors of my wardrobe fully closed. The grandfather clock ticks distinctly at the end of the room, the reverberation joined by its fellow timepieces, and my waistcoat is folded neatly on my chair. Everything is just as I had left it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guilt is eating me alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance at the grandfather clock, despite the lack of a need to do so. My body has allowed me to rest for six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds, and so it should be six hours, twenty minutes, and seventeen seconds past midnight. Five hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until noon. As such, it would be exactly three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and forty-three seconds until the meeting between Maria, Lord Diavolo, and the seven figureheads of the Devildom. If I start to prepare myself now, I should be able to attend to her in exactly thirty minutes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In conclusion, I would be five minutes late.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My work uniform is folded neatly on my chair, my shoes lined up neatly at the base of it. It is five minutes before I force myself away from the bed -- ensuring I would be exactly thirty-five minutes late -- and thirty minutes for me to prepare for the work day.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. SEPTEMBER 27TH: 6h 55m 00s 05ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I stand some distance away from the wooden door, mulling over the idea of  knocking a third time. I had made sure to leave five minute increments between each period of knocking, especially given the early hour, but the lack of response is mildly concerning. One would usually think to provide a servant with some sort of audible response -- surprised yelling, shuffling, perhaps even muffled curses as the resident within stumbles into furniture -- but Maria appears to have no knowledge of the social expectation. That, or she is still fast asleep. I would imagine it to be the latter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, I contemplate simply barging in and rousing her awake. Pouring the water from the flower vase would work, certainly, as would pulling away the sheets from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in her exchange year days, such an informal, inappropriate method would be considered normal. Expected, even. Long hours of partaking in alcohol and playing obscure human games do not particularly lend themselves to early mornings -- a fact that Maria had seemed to stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. And it would lead to the same outcome every time: she would partake in three or four drinks over the course of the night, debating some philosophy or aspect of human culture with Lord Diavolo, and I would be instructed to all but drag the stumbling, intoxicated human to a guest room. I would be the one to remove her shoes from her small, numb feet before she collapsed on the bed. To hold her upright as she struggled to brush her teeth, to ensure her body was at least warm enough to offset her poor circulation, and to wake her up before she missed one of her classes at RAD. Back in her exchange year days, I never would have thought twice about entering the room to wake her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Times have changed. I have long burned that bridge to ashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, there is the matter of giving her enough time to prepare for the meeting. While souls do not particularly require sustenance, it would be in her best interest to experience as many sensations as possible. To ground herself in this place and time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I knock again. No response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two minutes and thirty-one seconds pass. Two minutes and thirty-one seconds of a quiet, strained patience. Two minutes and thirty-one seconds of idling in the massive corridor, standing before a room that is apparently devoid of life. All in all, one hundred and fifty-one seconds of waiting in almost complete silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door clicks softly as I open it. I pass the threshold as I step into the room, ensuring that I mask my irritation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maria, your meeting with Lord Diavolo is --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria regards me over her shoulder, both her posture and movements suggesting severe lethargy. Or, at the very least, momentary confusion. She blinks, the dark eyelashes fluttering. The smooth olive tone of her back is almost completely bared to me, the contour of her shoulder blades shadowed in the dim light, and the dark blouse is only pulled up halfway over her torso. Her pants, while tightened perfectly at her thin waist, are loose in every other manner. Her sleeping clothes lie in a pile at her feet. Evidently she has just awoken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stare for a moment, all thoughts interrupted by the sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her expression suddenly metamorphoses into one of surprise, a flush coming onto her cheeks, and she quickly finishes pulling up the dark blouse. “I -- I was having trouble with buttoning it up,” she explains quickly. “I’ll be out in a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bow, averting my eyes. “Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As expected, the moment lasts approximately ten minutes and three seconds. Maria emerges from the room with quiet, shuffling steps, fidgeting with the sleeves of the blouse. The pitch-black blouse seems to swallow up her thin frame, the high-waisted pants a little too long for her petite legs, and there is a flicker of discomfort in her expression when the fabric grazes against her neck. As if it had burned her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then again, such fabrics are likely too cumbersome for the average human. The frigid air of the Devildom has done well to accustom demons to heavy, unforgiving textiles. She would have to wait until we acquire more fitting garments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I gesture towards the end of the hall. “Shall we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a quiet, almost wordless journey to the private kitchen. And then it is a quiet, almost wordless breakfast, the small room filled only with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>clink </span>
  </em>
  <span>of utensils. The scraping of the chairs against the wooden floor, the rush of water from the faucet, and the closing of the wooden door behind us as we exit to the corridor once more. With only thirty minutes and twenty seven until the meeting, I make sure to allot enough time for both her slower pace and her fatigue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite her silent forgiveness only six days before, I can feel the almost palpable tension in the air between us. The distance that I have created. There is little change in her demeanor -- she is as bullheaded and difficult as she was when she was alive -- but I can sense the guarded nature that has come to encompass her actions. I am kept at arm’s length. What had once been an open, unrestricted channel for her intentions and words has been replaced by a stark barrier. Amiable, yet distant. Cordial, yet reluctant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The memory of my nightmare suddenly makes itself known amongst my thoughts, overwhelming whatever had come before it. As much as I try to dispel the presence, that horrible crimson tingeing the edges of my vision, I am assaulted with the images of her dying over and over again. Black and blue marks on her small neck. A stab wound at her stomach. The broken, crumpled pile of her body. The spear that had all but shattered her, the flesh and bone of her torso nearly unrecognizable, and the same spear that had pinned her by the throat to the wall, her feet dangling some distance from the floor. That fearful, desperate look in her eyes as she had tried to pull the spear from her throat, her fingers nearly seared off in the process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I have no memory of tearing the angel apart. I have no memory of separating the flesh from bone, the limbs from his torso, or the head from whatever was left of his wretched body. Lord Diavolo had not stopped me from slaughtering the angel  -- examples must be made, after all -- but he had prevented my rampage from becoming too destructive. Maria had been too far gone to save at the moment, even with the application of sorcery, but Lord Diavolo had placed her in my arms all the same. Forcing me to regain at least some of my clarity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the one and only time I had felt her die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of footsteps behind me cease. I stop and turn to regard her slightly hunched, stumbling form, her hand lingering just an inch away from the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can wait a moment,” I offer, eyeing her. “There’s no need to rush.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria smiles sheepishly at me, waving off my concern. “No, no, I’m alright,” she answers, perceiving the question in my words. “I just think it’s kinda funny that I’m -- that I’m still like this. Guess it just takes a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My gaze lingers on her for only a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose so.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The entrance to the throne room is a grand, striking beast, featuring rich mahogany, gold adornments, and the carvings of strange and terrible gods. Here lies the relief of the Hundred-Eyed Devourer, a malicious entity who used his endless mass to gorge himself on both sacrifices and followers alike. The Mother of Many, a writhing, tentacled goddess who birthed a number of grotesque abominations. The All-Seeing, an eldritch beast who looked upon the sins of humanity and decimated entire city-states with its gaze. And then there is the One Who Hungers, an otherwise nameless, formless being that had terrorized even the gods of old. The true beast of Babylon. Even the old king found himself at a loss in comparison to this beast’s strength. The relief in the mahogany depicts only the gaping, slavering maw of the beast, its silhouette outlined by sharp, thorn-like teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Lord Diavolo’s father had slaughtered nearly all of them in cold blood, taking each of the gods’ powers for his own. The door is merely a retelling of events. A gruesome present from an equally gruesome father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria takes a moment to collect herself just outside of the door, shifting uncomfortably in her borrowed garments. Adjusting the oversized collar of her blouse with needless attention. I stand a respectful distance away from her as she does so. Her dark curls spill out of the confines of her low bun, exacerbating the effect of the shadows beneath her eyes. Her fingers furl and unfurl against the too-long sleeves of her blouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she finally sighs, her gaze meeting mine. Trepidation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I place a gloved hand against the great doors and push them open, leading her to the belly of the throne room. She proceeds with hesitant steps into the massive chamber, the diminutive heels of her shoes clicking quietly against the floor. Yet another strand undoes itself from her bun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she is nearly toppled over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maria!” cries Asmodeus, wrapping her small body in his too-familiar embrace. I frown. The blond demon picks her up and spins her in a perfect circle, prompting surprised yelps on her part. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria stumbles slightly when he finally puts her down, nearly tripping over a heel, but the blonde demon only continues to nuzzle her with affection. I frown deeper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Asmo,” she says, her voice muffled, “I -- I can’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t believe that you’re finally in the presence of my beauty?” he finishes for her. His wings flutter happily at his back, his excitement apparently too great to be contained. “It’s alright, you can admit it. It should be illegal to be as beautiful as I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi!” Mammon barks irritably. ”Whaddya think you’re doin’?! You’re not the only one who --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t be like that,” Asmodeus cuts him off, pursing his mouth. His embrace tightens on Maria, and he shoots the greedy demon a roguish grin. “Just because you’re a little jealous doesn’t mean you get to have her all to yourself. And she likes it, anyway. Don’t you, Maria?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria gives a muffled response, squirming slightly in his grip. Asmodeus nods in confirmation of his own statement, inciting a scowl to come over Mammon’s features.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mammon opens his mouth to speak, fully prepared to rebuke his younger brother’s claims -- but Beelzebub pushes past him before he can do so, encroaching slowly on the entwined pair. His more traitorous twin follows closely behind, drawn to the commotion, and the wrathful one looks upon the scene with a hint of exasperation from his seat. Lucifer, ever the disdainful demon, mirrors Satan’s expression, the tips of his black wings twitching in annoyance. The useless otaku brings a hand to his pocket, prepared to pull out his D.D.D.. And then there is Lord Diavolo, regarding the rather chaotic group with what appears to be nothing more than pure amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder, at times like this, just how the Devildom has managed to remain intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it is Beelzebub who offers the gesture of affection. Similar to Asmodeus, he does not wait for a confirmation or an answer -- and he picks up the entwined pair with a spine-crushing embrace. His face splits into an overjoyed smile, even as Asmodeus begins to show signs of discomfort. The blond demon’s feet flail uselessly in the air. Beelzebub only continues to confine the unfortunate pair in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you again, Maria,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Asmodeus manages to force out his head from beneath the larger demon’s arms. “Beel,” he chokes out, “don’t you think --”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“That’s enough!” </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Lucifer’s voice nearly echoes throughout the entirety of the room, his irritation seeming to have reached its peak. Dark tendrils of power begin to extend from his body, writhing with threatening intent in the air -- and Beelzebub drops both Maria and Asmodeus unceremoniously onto the ground, if only out of surprise. Asmodeus quickly picks himself up, straightening his clothes as he does so. Lucifer’s glare flickers between all six of his brothers, his gloved hands nearly splintering the wood of the chair he has in his grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, if you’re all done hounding the only --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satan rises from his seat. “Lucifer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- Lord Diavolo has called upon all of us for a very important meeting, so I would expect --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satan strides in the direction of both Asmodeus and Beelzebub. “Lucifer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- If we could find it within ourselves to just --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satan stands between Asmodeus and Beelzebub, nodding towards the ground. “Lucifer!”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>“What?”</b>
  <span> Lucifer all but snarls, regarding Satan with a fiery gaze. “I’m sure whatever has come to your attention can wait until after the discussion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the seething tone of the eldest brother, Satan’s expression seems to only possess concern. He nods towards the ground once more, kneeling. “I don’t think we can start the discussion if she’s like this,” he points out, pressing a hand to Maria’s nearly unconscious body. She doesn’t stir. “We should at least wake her up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands at her place in the throne room some eleven minutes and forty seconds later, her curls dripping with water. The now empty vase sits some distance behind her. Thankfully, the dark hues of her clothing prevent her from taking on an inappropriate appearance. The water damage to the wood and fabric of the chair can be remedied later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo takes a moment to clear his throat, drawing his gaze around the room. His eyes linger on each and every figurehead -- studying them to identify any dissent or controversy, just as his father had done -- and then he is looking upon Maria, taking in her soaked, nearly shivering form. Her eyes do not waver. A smile comes onto his visage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He claps his hands together, signalling the commencement of the meeting.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. SEPTEMBER 27TH: 10h 08m 53s 03ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I stand silently at the end of the room, my eyes flickering occasionally over the attendees of the meeting. It had only been expected for the figureheads to have some form of knowledge regarding the disastrous summit. The original representatives of the Celestial Realm, despite many attempts to contact them, are nowhere to be found. Despite the efforts to maintain peace between all three realms, a coup d’etat had been staged shortly after the summit. A partially expected consequence. With no formal peace treaty, there had been little obstruction to the desired ends of the rebellious faction -- if there had been any obstruction in the first place. And then there was the topic of Maria’s untimely expiration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There had been little visible reaction amongst the seven figureheads in regards to the topic. Little reaction other than the stiffening of postures, mild discomfort, and in one case, buried rage. It had been obvious knowledge at that point, given the severance of the pacts between all seven brothers and the human -- but it had been difficult to mask my vexation.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Humans die all the time</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I can imagine the traitorous twin remarking, his demeanor drifting dangerously close to disinterest. Lucifer and Asmodeus would speak words of assent on the matter, given the opportunity, and even Beelzebub might venture to nod. Despite the obvious impact of their sister’s death upon the seven figureheads as a whole, I still cannot bring myself to believe that they have a true grasp on the concept of death. Unforgiving, irreversible death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, I can expect no less from fallen angels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What I had not expected, however, is the manner in which Maria has demanded the rapt attention of her audience. How she has compelled each and every demon before her to subject themselves to her mercy, her presence much greater than her physical form would suggest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be in our best interest to gather information on the faction,” Maria proposes. “Acting without knowledge of their intentions, their methods, and the nature of their structure would incur too great of a risk. We shouldn’t act blindly. We have only a handful of days before the Celestial Realm’s celebration. If it is truly an event open to all, I propose that we seize the opportunity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While I agree with your reasons, I can’t imagine there are very many demons who would be willing to venture into such dangerous territory. Much less ones that would survive the trip there and back,” Lord Diavolo muses, settling back into his chair. “What you propose is something that could start a war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes are sharp. “Our war has already started. What I propose is a means to end it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo pauses for a moment, contemplating her words. Perhaps considering if he should refute them or not, given her complete refusal to bend to his will. Were he more like the dormant king, she would be eaten alive for daring to oppose him. Beheaded, if the king felt more merciful that day. Drawn and quartered. Starved. Lashed. Perhaps even some odd combination of all four, depending on his mood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, he is nothing like his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo sighs, conceding. “Then again, I anticipated that you had something like this in mind. You want to carry out this task yourself as well, I take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you think they’ll recognize you?” he inquires. “If that angel was given orders to single you out, there are probably many more who know what you look like. How are you so sure they won’t identify you on sight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s an apple tree in your garden, isn’t there? The one that lies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flicker briefly to one of the massive windows of the throne room, the stained glass overlooking the labyrinthine garden. “There is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would put it to good use,” she says. “I won’t be able to travel with very many through the portal, but I think it’ll be enough. Enough for me to find what I need, anyway. If -- if you would let me, that is. I can leave as soon as possible to ensure the effects aren’t lost on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “You do realize what you’re asking of me, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time, there is the hint of apprehension in her expression. Disquiet. Lord Diavolo holds her gaze for a long moment, neither of them speaking. Neither are willing to speak. Yet despite the clear imbalance of power -- a demon prince against a mere, vulnerable soul -- Maria shows no signs of wavering. She simply stands in place, her small form dwarfed by both the ill-fitting clothes and the sheer size of the throne room. Lord Diavolo’s golden eyes look upon her from his throne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his visage cracks into a smile. He laughs, the resonant sound reverberating throughout the room, and Maria visibly relaxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve always liked that about you!” he beams, adjusting into a more casual position. “So much willpower in you, even for a human. So much moxie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moxie?” she echoes, confused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, moxie! What those flying drivers in movies have,” he explains, making rather vague gestures with his hands. She stares. “My only condition is that you bring one of us along with you. A partner, you could say. If you’re looking to work with a demon who won’t be ripped apart by the fabric of the Celestial Realm, you’ve got the cream of the crop right here. As the prince of the Devildom, I understand your reasons to fare such a dangerous task. But as a friend, I cannot let you go alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo smiles warmly down at her, and Maria returns the gesture. For once, I am glad that she had been so insistent on forming such strong relations with the prince. That there had been a reason other than bothering me at inconvenient hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria’s gaze flickers around the room, lingering on each and every one of the seated figureheads. Evaluating them. While none have dared to speak thus far -- especially considering their lack of any real power in the order -- it is easy to discern the unrest. Again she shifts uncomfortably in her garments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I follow her gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beelzebub would reveal his identity with his unnatural hunger. Belphegor would succumb to his own hatred. Asmodeus would likely accomplish nothing, as expected of his flighty, frivolous nature. He would be nothing more than a liability. Even after a millennium, Lucifer is still too noticeable. Too identifiable. He would be eradicated on sight. And Satan -- no, that one could be viable. If that one could manage to keep his rage in check, he could very well be an option. The only option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bites her lip, regarding Lord Diavolo. “Anyone in this room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aside from myself, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I observe the greedy one silently as his expression hardens, his rather brazen nature taking control of his outward movements. Clenched jaw, determined gaze, the anxious tapping of his fingers against his leg. That one would ultimately be too brash. Too impatient, too loud, too garish in his actions. And yet it is in his arrogance that seems to make him believe that he would be fitting for the role. Aside from Leviathan -- who I imagine would be overtaken by his own envy in the process -- Mammon is the least viable candidate for the task.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which leaves the wrathful one. Lord Diavolo would not likely allow --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Barbatos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I blink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo arches a brow. “Barbatos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If -- if you would lend me his service,” she says, glancing quickly towards me. I keep my expression impassive. “You told me I could have anyone in this room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo pauses, registering her words. “I did, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Barbatos can control time,” she reasons. “If anything goes wrong, we can just go back and redo everything until we get it right. At least, that’s what I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo nods, conceding with her agreement. “Well, I can’t say I don’t agree with your reasons,” he says after a moment. He makes a point to regard me over the others, and I return his gaze. “Barbatos?”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The light of the false moon filters well over the furnishings of the lord’s office, the surface of the desk seeming to nearly emanate a luminosity of its own. Despite this, Lord Diavolo always insists on some form of interior lighting -- and so I have made the effort to ignite the few candles scattered around the room. Each flame flickers within its glass confines, ribbons of animal fat dripping down the alabaster forms. The fireplace roars with a blue and white blaze, devouring the kindling. I pass by the grate with long, easy strides, balancing both the teapot and teacup on a tray, and place the items some distance away from Lord Diavolo’s paperwork.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Our paperwork, as it would occur. I can only hope that Lord Diavolo can manage to make them convincing enough, given that he had insisted on doing forging them himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lord regards me the moment I set down the tray, as if he had just noticed my presence. “Barbatos!” he addresses me, smiling. “What a lovely surprise! Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is no need to thank me every time, my Lord,” I respond, taking the steaming teapot into my hands. The fragrant tea pours delicately into the teacup. “It is only my duty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A duty that I still appreciate. I believe your interests suit the art of baking pastries and brewing tea a little more,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You seem happier. Happier than the first time I met you, I would think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Memories of screaming demons, wretched cries of pain and desperation, and the cold blood pooling at my feet flash through my thoughts. I had not worked efficiently enough that day, the words of the traitorous demon drawn out with each snap of his extremities -- and so I had lent myself to the disgusting sensation of being submerged in his ichor. The demon king had opened the door then, the light of the torch spilling into the room. Perched at the threshold of his legacy. And behind him stood the young prince, the mop of fiery hair in contrast with the viscera-painted walls of the chamber. He had scrutinized me with curious, golden eyes, unaffected by the gore that lined the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same pair of eyes that look upon me now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lord Diavolo takes a sip of the tea, humming in appreciation. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” he remarks. “This is chamomile, isn’t it? I can’t believe it took two thousand years for us to finally catch onto this. Who would have thought a human would have such good taste?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The human world has multitudinous biomes for growing such flora. It is only natural that they would be the ones to discover its uses.” I place the teapot gingerly back into its proper place, the bottom of the ceramic dish clinking against the metal tray. “But I will admit that her affinity for the taste led to an increase in imports.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s brash, isn’t she?” he says, returning his attention to the papers strewn before him. I move the teacup some distance away before he can forget. “But I suppose that’s how she survived here in the first place. All that fire and foxy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe the word is moxie, my Lord.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes, moxie! I have been falling behind on my studies of human culture, haven’t I?” He laughs in good humor at his own blunder. “It’s a shame they’ve been too preoccupied for consultation. Just think of how many things we could have learned about the human world by now! I believe we last left on the topic of seams. Something to do about a viney plant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He is deliberately avoiding the subject</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I observe silently. nodding in agreement. The papers beneath his hands remain unmarked, his pen set aside. The smile on his face, while largely genuine, belies a sympathetic concern. A feat his father would have never achieved. The lord had chosen only the finest, most discreet doctors to treat his old friend over the past month, allowing her refuge within his own castle, and still her soul is weak. Still she has shown no signs of recovery from her time in limbo, the structure of her metaphysical body crumbling by the day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is only her willpower, it seems, that ties her to this time and place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you prepared?” he asks, placing the teacup back onto the desk. I had not realized that he had reached for it. “I went to the trouble of gathering all of them, but I believe she made a good choice. Maybe even the right one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I refill the teacup. “I will do as you wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a sigh.  “I can’t even begin to count the centuries that have passed since I took his place.” There is a note of exasperation in his tone -- much as there had been for the past two thousand years. “I will always give you a choice, Barbatos. When will you learn that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I remember standing over the demon king’s body. Golden, inquisitive eyes had pierced through me. An echo of his countenance in the torture chambers. He had held a hand out to me, the image stained with the black blood of his kin, and I had taken it in mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quite possibly never, my Lord.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. SEPTEMBER 27TH: 21h 37m 40s 01ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sound of my footsteps resonates throughout the expanse of the corridor. Given the lateness of the hour -- Lord Diavolo had called upon me at a quarter and thirty-six seconds to eight p.m. -- the hall is illuminated only by the light of the false moon, its hue lending a rather silver quality to the space before me. Aside from the live-in servants, night guards, and guests, this division of the castle is empty. Nearly silent in the absence of movement. And so I walk with deliberate steps in the direction of Maria’s quarters, a bottle hidden within the confines of my waistcoat. Waiting for the demon at the end of the hall to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is only a moment before I pass him by, his form only slightly obscured in the shadow. I do not address him first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were there, weren’t ya?” he says, not bothering to step away from the wall. His body is propped up in a casual manner, his arms folded across his chest. “When she died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mammon glares at me over the thick frames of his spectacles, his ill-tempered nature apparent in his gaze. Characteristics of a brash, arrogant creature. “Then why didn’t ya do anything?” he demands. “We got the news the morning after it happened, ya know. The way she kicked the bucket. How could ya just stand there and watch her die? Why didn’t --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a god,” I answer, cutting him off. “It is impossible to change a predestined course of events.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whaddya mean? That’s your whole thing!” He clenches his fists, the volume of his voice rising with each word. “She -- she died because none of you tried to help her! If you couldn’t protect her then, what makes you think you can protect her now? I can’t lose her again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I regard him dispassionately. “Your pact with her was severed upon death. She does not belong to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winces at that, as if my very words had burned him. It seems I have struck a nerve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That -- that doesn’t matter!” He finally pushes himself off the wall. I can discern his true form beginning to materialize, the shadows behind him revealing the curved horns and bat-like wings. “If she didn’t come to that stupid summit, she’d still be here! What would ya even know about her, anyway? How could ya even understand how she suffered? You’re nothin’ more than Diavolo’s dog!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are nothing more than a disgraced angel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but at least I would’ve protected her!” he snarls. “Unlike you, I would have done everythin’ I could to save her. If I were there, she wouldn’t have --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And where were you, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sense the movement before my eyes perceive it. The unfurling of wings, the crack of his horns as they rupture through his skull, the shift in the air as he lunges at me. It would take three seconds and forty-two milliseconds to shift into my true form, one second and ten milliseconds to completely dodge the blow, and five seconds and twenty-seven milliseconds to prepare a full counterattack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given that the demon before me is only the second strongest brother, I have little need to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a groan of pain as his skull bounces off the brocade, the force leaving an impression behind his body. An observation of little importance -- I could have the damage to the wall repaired later. My gloved hand is wrapped neatly around his throat, my grip subduing any attempts of escape. His wings flutter uselessly at his back, his legs flailing in an attempt to kick me off. His hands claw at my sleeve, nearly ruining the fabric, and I apply pressure to discourage him from doing so. The brazen demon stops almost immediately, prioritizing the utility of his throat over the possibility of being released. With the addition of greater pressure, it is only a moment before he stops struggling. Instead, he only glares at me with an immeasurable wrath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You bastard --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would do well to remember your place.” I tighten my hold on his windpipe, and the words die in his throat. “It was only by my Lord’s generosity that you and your brothers were allowed to live after falling from grace. If you so much as pose a threat once more, I will ensure your long and painful eradication from this world. Do I make myself clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do not wait for an answer. He collapses to the floor the moment I release his throat, gasping for air. Cursing me in every manner possible. I simply continue to walk down the corridor until the choked gasps are nothing but a distant clamor, the false moonlight illuminating my path.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The dim light of the lamp flickers against the walls of the room, the strange shadows dancing indiscriminately against the otherwise plain design. Providing me with some form of entertainment. The bottle of the liqueur had uncorked easily, as anticipated. Twenty-seven seconds to the measured amount into a small glass, place the glass onto the nightstand, and set the bottle aside. Five minutes for me to wait patiently at her bedside, preoccupying myself with the rustle of clothing beyond the door. Six minutes and eight seconds for me to instead preoccupy myself with the movement of the shadows against the wall, my boredom beginning to rise to the surface. And then it is seven minutes and nineteen seconds for my gaze to flicker occasionally to the bathroom door, the lack of sound now concerning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As well as mildly irritating. While she had expressed an average of eleven minutes, two seconds, and fifty-three milliseconds to undress and redress completely in the past, the current duration has set itself far apart from the times that I can recall. An abnormality.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so it would be completely acceptable for me to check on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I knock briefly, allowing a moment for her to respond verbally. Nothing. I turn the handle and open the door as slowly as possible so as to not startle her, given her current condition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her dark eyes meet mine in a matter of milliseconds, the surprise registered fully in her gaze. As well as an element of embarrassment. She smiles sheepishly at me, a hand hovering just over the buttons of her oversized pajamas. The other has phased completely through the fabric.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a -- what a surprise, Barbatos,” she says, attempting to distract me from the current issue. “Come here often?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sigh. “You do realize I am at your service.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I imagine you plan to spend the rest of the night half-clothed and partially transparent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stride over to her, no longer able to contain my impatience. It is little work for me to undo the hand in question from her pajamas, but it appears that her attempts to fasten the rest of the garment have gone just as well. The misalignment of the buttons on the silk blouse have forced it to sit crooked on her small form, nearly slipping off a shoulder, and I am forced to undo the buttons from bottom-up to remedy her mistakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I do not think of the soft olive tone of her skin as I do so, nor do I pay attention to the form of her small breasts beneath the silk. I do not think of the collarbones to which I have pressed innumerable kisses and bruises, nor do I think of the outline of the small waist that I have held over and over again to position myself within her. I do not think of the dark curls that I have used to anchor her in place as I took her from behind, nor do I think of the slickness of her channel as I did so. I do not think of the soft curve of the mouth that I have violated, the sighs of pleasure that had left that mouth, or the cruelty with which I had taken her time and time again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, I think of nothing at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria is perched on the edge of her bed some twelve minutes and twenty seconds later, the glass cradled delicately in her small hands. A pink sleeve threatens to fall into the glass, precarious as it is on her wrist, but she pushes it up before it can do so. She regards the amber liquid with some apprehension, despite all logical reasoning that would argue against her action. Or inaction, one could consider it. I can imagine very few reasons why one would attempt to poison a dead human. Yet there is that quiet, awkward pause, her inaction speaking at a much greater volume.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t trust you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> it says, the hesitation piercing me through and through. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could I trust you after that? How could anyone?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I try to disregard the thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate you giving me a nightcap, but isn’t this a little too much?” she remarks, finally reaching to receive the glass from the nightstand. She studies the liqueur for a few moments, swirling the amber liquid into itself. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to have a nightcap seven days in a row. I don’t sleep that badly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” I concede. “You don’t sleep at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She regards me with indignation, huffing slightly, but says nothing on the matter. Not that she would have achieved much success with the argument. Between the shadows under her eyes and her near-constant state of fainting, there lies little room for doubt as to the cause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More importantly, rest is essential to the execution of her plan. If we are to depart for the Celestial Realm tomorrow, she must rest as much as she can now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sigh. “Regardless of the matter, it is important that you continue to experience familiar sensations and activities. Lord Diavolo has instructed that I ensure your well-being.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize ensuring my well-being meant giving me alcohol at every opportunity,” she remarks. She inches forward on the edge of the bed, cradling the glass. Her feet are still some distance from the floor. “If you wanted to get me drunk, I’m pretty sure there are better ways to go about it. It would be faster, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Providing a measured amount of alcohol every night does not qualify as every opportunity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maria.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, suppressing yet another sigh. “Could you please just drink it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her gaze flickers from me to the glass, a smile beginning to play at her lips. “And if I don’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you always have to be so insufferable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a long moment -- Maria holding the glass, me restraining myself from simply forcing the liquid into her mouth -- but she relents eventually, tipping her head back as she partakes of the liqueur. Still, I am thankful for it. It is only when she is at her most difficult and insufferable that I can  pretend that there lies no distance between us. That I had not created this barrier that stands between us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She places the drained glass on the table after she finishes, a flush beginning to make itself known on her cheeks. Or perhaps that is only because I want there to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about you tell me something?” she suggests, pulling a rather large pillow over her body. The dim light of the lamp flickers, casting a shadow over her features as she regards me. I reach to turn it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Provide an example.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drums her fingers against the surface of the pillow, thinking. “I don’t know. Something nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have any bedtime stories for you on hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not -- not like that!” she protests, inching closer to the edge of the bed. I consciously keep a respectable distance away from her, standing by the window. “I just -- I think your voice is nice. Maybe if you stay and talk to me for a bit I’ll go to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look at her for a long moment, studying her features in the dark. Searching for some unspoken meaning within the request. Her eyes are unfocused in the dark, her lack of physical capabilities affecting her even in death, and so I do not bother to hide my scrutinization.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can no longer see through her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I sit on the bed beside her before she reconsider the request, closing the distance. Perhaps a little too quickly. She startles in place at the sudden movement, drawing into herself slightly -- but she fails to move. Chooses not to. There is only interest in her eyes when I meet her gaze. For the first time in weeks, I feel the barrier between us slipping, if only by some marginal measurement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe I have informed you that I am at your service.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>An hour, fifty-three minutes, and two seconds have passed by the time I have finished, taking the both of us into the long hours of the night -- but she is asleep at last. Her dark curls spread themselves out onto the expanse of the pillow that she has wrapped herself around, giving the locks the appearance of a halo. Her small form is nearly swallowed whole by the fabric of her pajamas, the pale silk standing in contrast to the richness of her skin. She breathes easily, the nature of her slumber not at all like the fitful, restless one of my nightmares, and it is nearly soothing to watch her in such a state. To know that she has willingly and knowingly placed herself in such a vulnerable position before me. Which is just as well: if we are to leave tomorrow, it would be best that she depart fully rested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tale I had spun had not been completely insubstantial. I had spoken of a butcher, a slaughterhouse, and a lamb. An executioner, a corrupt judge, and a helpless onlooker. A hunter, a fur trader, and a rabbit. A dispassionate torturer, a greedy king, and an impressionable young prince. A list of grievances that the king had committed against even his own people, his conquests, and the justification for his execution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, I am glad to know that she had fallen unconscious long before the conclusion of my tale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I should take my leave. Given that I have carried out my duties for the day, I have little reason to remain. And yet I cannot convince myself to do so. I find myself staring at her unconscious form, my eyes tracing the pleasing contours of her visage. Admiring the image of her parted lips against the pillow, the flutter of her dark eyelashes, and the flush that seems to have truly taken over her features, despite her current state. I find myself brushing away a stray curl that has fallen over her cheek. A gloved hand lingers briefly over her skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light of the false moon spills over the both of us, illuminating us against the darkness that surrounds us. Nearly blinding me for a moment. I draw myself closer towards her, leaning over her smaller form. My lips brush the surface of her skin. Lingering.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you couldn’t protect her then, what makes you think you can protect her now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause at the echo of the churlish demon’s voice, the doubt hitting me full force. The guilt claws its way out from my thoughts, devouring me from the inside out -- and I straighten almost immediately. Place distance between myself and the human, my senses returning to their original state. The correct state. I make for the exit as quickly and quietly as possible, my footsteps a whisper in the expanse of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door closes quietly behind me.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. SEPTEMBER 28TH: 08h 21m 00s 42ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The angel scrutinizes us with rather uncomfortable, long pauses, seemingly content with taking note of every aspect of our appearances. I can’t help but stare back, meeting his suspicious gaze with an equally exasperated one of my own. Aside from that, the expression is unbecoming of his kind. The angel is a rather lanky, graceless creature, possessing a physique that would be more at home on a scribe than a domestic servant. Hardly worth a meal for a demon, if I were ever forced to devour him. And then there is the matter of his irritating habit. His eyes linger a moment too long on Maria as he assesses her, suggesting an unprofessional intent. Maria simply stares back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stifle the vexation that threatens to make itself known on my features.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You two are from the, ah, sixth district?” He looks at our forged forms, his fierce scrutinization regressing into something more quizzical. “You two don’t really look like --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not from there originally,” Maria says quickly, cutting him off. “And he’s -- I’m his adopted sister. I just thought it would be easier if I wrote that down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interviewer says nothing at that. I regret letting Lord Diavolo forge our papers for us.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strange name,” he remarks. He gestures with his chin at me before Maria can speak, the vestiges of suspicion apparent in the momentary glance. “Not you. Him. Your -- sorry, his -- mother thought Boris was an appropriate name for an angel of the sixth district? I don’t think I’ve ever anyone with a name like that. You sure you two are from there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said, we’re --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If our forms have been deemed acceptable, would it not be logical for us to be given our duties?” I step forward in front of Maria, obscuring her from the angel’s gaze. In spite of our positions -- the pretense of a lesser angel seeking work in Sanctum, the grand heart of the Celestial Realm -- I find myself giving the creature a withering look, nearly glaring at the uptight angel. He fidgets awkwardly. “My sister has a rather weak constitution. The sooner she can start, the more useful she will be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel startles slightly, despite the carefulness of my movements. “It’s protocol. We can’t just let anyone in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And protocol demands that you waste each applicant’s time with incessant questions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stand only an inch or two above the angel, limiting the effect of my persuasion -- but it is enough. It takes twelve seconds for the angel to decide against arguing, the creature turning away with a huff, and then it is only four seconds for him to reach the door. Two seconds for him to call out to some unseen angel, thirty-three seconds for the previously unseen angel to escort Maria away to her newfound duty, and three seconds for him to look at me silently, perhaps considering giving me a tongue-lashing later for stepping out of line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless of whatever his thoughts may be, he gestures for me to follow him out of the interview room. Given that I have neither the ability nor the appetite to devour the angel, I do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been an easier process for Maria. As a soul with ties to neither the Celestial Realm nor the Devildom. partaking in Lord Diavolo’s family heirloom was little more than an outward change in form. A mere shift in her appearance. The ease of her process was expected, of course, considering the nature of the anomalous flora. The vivid crimson skin of the apple had yielded easily beneath her teeth as she bit into it, the blood-red juice staining her lips. It had squirmed only for a moment, the flesh pulsing much as one would expect of a heart, and then it had stopped. The fruit of Lord Diavolo’s family heirloom had simply withered away in her hands, the pretense she had chosen for her appearance overtaking her form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Apple of Lies, mockery of the Celestial Realm as it was, had not been so kind to me. I had imagined the image of an angel: something bright and brilliant and obnoxious. The flesh had scorched me from within as if it had been borne from the Celestial Realm itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nearly flinch at my own reflection as the angel leads me through the expansive corridors, an unfamiliar man regards me from within the marble.  Unobtrusive verdant eyes, a mop of black hair, and fair, nearly human skin. A pure white worker’s uniform, despite assignment in Sanctum’s kitchens, and an equally monochromatic pair of shoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel continues to lead me past the end of the hall, the marble stopping at a particularly massive column. The unfamiliar man is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sunlight nearly blinds me when we step away from the inner halls, my pupils unused to the light, but the angel either does not care to stop or sees no need for it. I stand in place for a moment, blinking once. Twice. The unwelcome intrusion still plagues my vision after I do so, and it is a moment before I can see clearly once more. Before I can register the image that lies before me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause at the sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Magnificent, isn’t it?” The angel remarks, coming to stand beside me. He laughs at my astonishment, my previous outburst seemingly forgotten. “The young empress herself commissioned for it to be built. I don’t rightly know if it holds a candle to the original, but it seems pretty damned close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His observation is only partially correct. The entirety of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon would never be able to fit into such a small place -- especially not wedged into the center of Sanctum -- but the resemblance is uncanny. Almost excruciatingly so. The previous demon king had stood by my side then, the prince a mere fledgling at the time. The towers of the great city of Babylon had loomed before us, the clamor of its people echoing deep into the night. The old king had hungered for the blood and power of the One Who Hungers, relying on my assistance in the human world, but I could not tear my eyes away from something so wondrous. For the first time, I had considered humans to be more than animals -- for what animal could create something so beautiful?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aside from that, the presence of the replica indicates --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Lady!” the angel suddenly exclaims.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My thoughts cut themselves short. I turn around immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel is a tall, stately creature, possessing skin as white as snow, hair the color of alabaster, and pink, unfocused pupils. They waver slightly as she regards the kneeling angel before her, the tips of her long fingers pressed to his lips. Despite the angel all but prostrating himself before her, the creature’s expression remains wholly indiscernible. Impassive, perhaps, if one took only her lack of response into consideration. Her entourage -- presumably, her flock of guards -- stands some distance behind her. The layers of white and silver robes rustle slightly when the angel finally releases her hand, the angel’s need to please almost sickening. She frowns almost imperceptibly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The empress,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I realize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What brings you here today, my Lady?” asks the angel, finally rising from his position. “Would you like a tour of the garden? A cup of tea to soothe your spirits?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither,” she replies. “I only saw fit to check on the state of the garden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel straightens at that, his enthusiasm rolling off his body in waves. “Oh, yes! I’ve assigned only the best of the best to tend to the garden day and night, my Lady. You can find no finer talent than in the walls of Sanctum, I can assure you of that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flicker briefly to mine. The unfocused nature of her pupils do little to dull the sharpness of her gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This one?” the angel echoes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scrutinizes me from afar, despite her clear lack of adequate vision. “Yes, that one,” she says. “I assume that one is here to work on the gardens as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, no, my Lady. We merely picked him and his sister up today to place more staff in the kitchen and stables.” He spares only a dismissive glance towards me, making no effort to hide the irritation on his face. Still, her attention does not divert from me. “He is but a lowly --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense.” Her tone is scathing, cutting off the angel. He winces. The fair creature passes by the angel without a second glance, her entourage moving to follow close behind, and it is only moments before she stands in front of me. “All celestial beings are equal in the new era, no matter the circumstances of their birth,” she says. Her eyes blaze with a righteous fire. “Tell me, divine one, what is your name? From which district do you hail?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I bow my head respectfully. “Boris, my Lady. I hail from the sixth district.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles. “A wonderful name. We have much work to do in the sixth district -- I do apologize for that -- but be rest assured that no one is considered lesser here. We are but divine brothers and sisters, are we not? All are equals in the eyes of the Divinity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her layered robes are a whisper against the marble when she leaves, her pale form disappearing down the sunlit hall. The golden armor of her entourage clinks as they follow suit, the guards treading lightly against the polished floors. Like the pale creature, they, too, seem to become formless in the light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel whirls around to regard me with vexation. “You imbecile!” he cries. “How dare you not bow before our esteemed Lady! If -- if that were me, I would have strung you up by your limbs! I --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel’s empty threats and berating comments continue nearly the rest of the way to Sanctum’s kitchens, any thoughts or analyses I could have conjured interrupted by the angel’s shrill voice. The presence of bright, jarring sunlight and monochromatic marble and gold each way we turn does little to help the matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, I make a note to devour him later. If necessary, of course.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>It is seven hours, fifty-four minutes, and thirty seconds before I am able to depart unseen from the servants’ quarters, given the night rounds of Sanctum’s guards. I am glad for the wait. The darkness of the night is a welcome change to the insufferable brightness of the day. The warmth of the sun had nearly burned off my skin. The true cuisine of the Celestial Realm -- namely, those made with ingredients considered indigestible for demons -- had all but scorched my throat and stomach as I forced myself to swallow the given fare, the divine nature of the food burning me from the inside out. Handling such purely divine produce in the kitchen had seared off the palms of my hands, my natural rejuvenation slowed by the very air of the Celestial Realm, and even now I can feel the throbbing, aching pain. Despite the outward effects of the Apple of Lies, my body is still that of a demon. I can feel my constitution weakening with nearly every hour I spend in this sun-blighted place, the composition of my being slowly but surely tearing itself apart. Demons are not meant to live, much less thrive, in such a domain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I can only imagine that Maria fares no better. Her weak constitution has likely done little to lend itself to the hard labor of being a laundress. While the implementation of more modern applications have likely lessened the strain on her body, the insufferable nature of the steward does little to ease my worries. As one of the lowest servants in Sanctum, Maria is more than likely being worked to the bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tap the seconds out on my bandaged hands as I wait for Maria to arrive. Sixty seconds, one hundred and twenty seconds, one hundred and eighty seconds. Two hundred and forty seconds, three hundred seconds, three hundred and sixty seconds. The sound of the guards reverberates against the ground some distance away, alerting me to their presence, but there is no reason to make myself scarce. Not at the moment. Given the distance and the estimated time it would take for the guards to arrive within a questionable distance, Maria and I are in no danger of being discovered. A rather rough estimation by my standards, considering the Celestial Realm’s negative effects on my physiology and senses, but it is likely of little consequence. Even if we are, I can imagine that a nightly rendezvous is rather common in the walls of Sanctum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria, as I had predicted, arrives in ten minutes and twenty seconds. The midnight-blue cloak does well to mask her figure against the great walls, allowing her to move as a shadow in the darkness, but it is her diminutive frame that gives her away. A stray curl slips out from her cloak before she can pull back the hood. Five seconds and eleven milliseconds later, her eyes widen at the sight of my nearly obscured form in against the storehouse. She moves with short, quick steps towards me, taking her place beside me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I frown at her. “You’re late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I -- I know,” she says sheepishly, her voice only slightly above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if they would find me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a laundress. I’m sure they wouldn’t see it as anything out of the ordinary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She raises a brow. “At this hour? How would that not be suspicious? Where would they even think I was going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To a tryst, perhaps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her cheeks color. Given the soft haze of moonlight, the wildness of her curls against her visage, and her strangely lively disposition, it is a truly lovely sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s -- they wouldn’t fall for that,” she protests with indignation, a hand rising to her cheek. It stops halfway -- a realization of habit, I presume -- and she settles for giving me a halfhearted glare. I stare back in response, stifling the teasing smile that threatens to appear on my features. “And aren’t we getting a little off topic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have more than enough time. The nearest guard is quite a distance away.” It is not a complete lie. I pause long enough to watch Maria repress a sigh. “The kitchens are connected to both the servants’ quarters and the inner chambers of Sanctum. I had little reason and time to explore the area, but a day or so should be enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods. “That’s good. I think the laundry room and storage areas are all like that. Like they’re all connected, somehow. I tried to head down one of the halls, but the head laundress -- she yelled at me before I could get far enough. Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An image of the alabaster angel flickers across my thoughts. “I met her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The empress. She was on her way to the center of Sanctum when the steward and I found her.” Maria gives me a confused look, and I make an effort to explain further. “I believe you’ll have no difficulty recognizing her once you set your eyes upon her. She’s a tall, colorless creature.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That -- that can’t be right,” she says. “According to the head laundress, the empress was supposed to be in her quarters all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is no trouble for an empress to move about of her own volition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria shakes her head at that. “Yes, but -- you said she was tall, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then that can’t possibly be true. The clothes that I washed today looked like they were made for someone almost as short as I am.” She furrows her brows, thinking. “Maybe you have the wrong person?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt it,” I respond, the memories of the steward’s unparalleled groveling coming to the surface. I nearly grimace at the thought. “Unless she is only a  high-ranking noble, I have little reason to believe that creature was anyone but the empress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “At least, we have -- what -- nine days to finish up here? Twelve, maybe. We’ve got enough for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s rather optimistic, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s better than nothing. I don’t remember much from when I was limbo, but I do remember -- no, I know there was a heart of some kind.” A hand lifts to her temple, as if warding off some oncoming headache. Her visage gathers in concentration. “There was something very important here, but I -- I just can’t remember what. Important enough to drag us all the way here, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would hope so.” In spite of myself, I can’t help but deadpan. The irritated look on her face -- something other than feigned politeness or discomfort -- is worth it. “We are at the heart of enemy territory, if that’s what you meant to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowns. “Well, that’s not very nice of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They would sooner have our heads than allow us to leave. Perhaps even have us drawn and quartered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quiet moment passes between us, the horror showing vividly on her features. I realize that I may have gone a bit too far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she is drawing her cloak around her small body, barely disguising a shiver -- but her expression is more than enough to put me at ease. For what seems to be the first time since her return to the Devildom, the barrier that I have incited between us has completely vanished. Her expression is completely devoid of that reluctance and distance that has governed her actions for the past few weeks. I can see through her once more, discerning the emotions that lie just beneath the surface. Certain indignation, visible horror, and traces of disgust. Fear and trepidation of the future that might come. Concern over the fragile balance between all three realms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there is mirth. There is an undeniable, warm mirth and humor that sparkles in her dark eyes, illuminating her features more than the false moon ever could. She smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria turns much too quickly, intending to take her leave. Effectively ending the intimacy between us. “We should follow the leads that we have before we lose them,” she says over her shoulder. “As long as --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sound catches my attention. I nearly curse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wrap my bandaged hand over Maria’s mouth before she can cry out, dragging her elsewhere into the shadows. Her small feet kick uselessly in the air in response, muffled protests nearly audible through my fingers -- but a sharp look persuades her otherwise. I gesture wordlessly with my gaze in the direction of the path.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Sanctum guard walks past some five seconds later, the metal soles of their shoes inciting a noticeable clamor as they do appear within sight. A clamor that I had not been able to detect, despite the proximity of the guard. They stand under one of the great crystalline lights, twirling their spear with a flourish. It meets the ground with tangible impact, nearly startling Maria. I only continue to press my fingers against her mouth. Her feet dangle some distance from the ground, and I do my best to support the rest of her body. It is only when she truly catches sight of the guard that she ceases all movement, her eyes growing wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This one is considerably larger than the others. Seemingly more capable, judging by the precision and ease of their movement. Their skin appears to have been carved from marble, the pieces of gold and silver armor all but infused onto their body. A pair of massive, obnoxiously golden wings are folded at their back, further adding to their height, and the creature’s form seems to emanate light from within. A halo sits some distance from their shoulders, blazing in the darkness of the night. While I have little knowledge on the caste system of the angels, it requires little deductive skill to determine this particular angel’s standing. Their arms and legs are embedded with sapphire and other precious stones, indicating the angel’s rank. Their neck -- at least, what would serve as a neck -- swivels about. Despite their clear lack of a head, the Sanctum guard seems to fare well enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I press the both of us further into the shadows, willing our forms to melt into the marble behind us. Maria’s heartbeat races, signalling her panic, but I do not dare release her mouth. The slightest noise would give away our position. And so we are forced to wait long, arduous seconds, time crawling at an excruciating pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Six seconds pass. The Sanctum guard leans casually against their spear, all too willing to to settle into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty-one seconds pass. The Sanctum guard continues to scan the area, scrutinizing the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirty-nine seconds pass. The Sanctum guard stands almost perfectly still. Waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two minutes and ten seconds pass. The Sanctum guard makes themselves scarce, apparently content with abandoning their quarry. I wait another minute before releasing Maria’s mouth, still holding her against me, and she merely collapses against my arms. She is quiet for a few moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They followed us here,” she finally whispers, the fear coating her voice. Maria looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes. “They -- they knew we were going to be here and --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not ‘we,’” I say, interrupting her before she can rouse herself into a greater panic. My eyes search the visible gap between the wall and the storehouse, searching for the angel’s outline. I find nothing. “It seems the angel was only looking for suspicious activity. Evidence of some kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Other than that steward, there’s no one else who could have tipped us off. He’s the only one who --” She pauses, sighing. Gathering her thoughts. “We should meet elsewhere next time. Not tomorrow. Choosing to meet by the storehouse was too obvious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body relaxes in my embrace. It is only now that I realize the intimacy of our position. Her small body, despite her state, is somehow warm and inviting, sparking a blaze within me. Her mass of curls is pressed against my chest, her head a distance away from my shoulders. My arms are wrapped snugly around her small waist, the rest of her form following suit. I revel in the sensation, despite myself. Basking in her strange warmth. I can almost pretend that there exists no barriers between us, that I had not spoiled our friendship in the worst ways possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then it is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushes herself off me with an unexpected amount of force, stumbling in the aftermath. Maria quickly obscures her features with her hood, the fabric creating a shadow, and she regards me for only a moment. I stare back in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The laundry room of the lower floors,” she says, turning away from me. “There’s a relief of one of the archangels by it. We’ll meet in two days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself reaching for her before I know it, intending to take her by the hand -- but I grasp at nothing. Only the slightest hint of her cloak brushes against my fingers, a stray curl wisping away in the air. She leaves the vicinity just as quickly as she had arrived. I am left alone in the darkness, wanting.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. SEPTEMBER 29TH: 11h 02m 49s 09ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The knife strikes with a steady, precise rhythm against the board, the pearly onions rendered to slices within moments. Then there are the leeks, shallots, garlic, and bunches of mint, all of which sit idly by the expansive chopping board. The bandages wrapped around my hands prove to be rather cumbersome in the task, reducing my efficiency -- but it is my experience that allows me to work deftly around the obstruction. It is likely that I would have to change the bandages at some point within the next hour: the crushing of the cumin, cinnamon, wild bulbs, and numerous other spices that I had found myself unable to name have both stained and left the bandages with a savory smell, leaving me currently unable to work with other meat. Or any other food, for that matter. I imagine that baking a butterscotch pie with traces of pork fat and savory spices would have little appeal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite my best efforts, I find that the image of her is branded into my mind. Seared deep into the recesses of my memory, dredging up both unpleasant and pleasant thoughts. Her dark curls had spilled over her shoulders as I pressed her to me, and I was vaguely aware of the soft, full lips that laid beneath my fingers. The moonlight had illuminated her features in such a loving manner, embracing the soft brown tone of her skin, the shape of her curls, the dark pools of her eyes. Everything about her had been impossibly ravishing, even more so than usual. Had I not known she was only human -- a human spirit, to be exact -- I would have assumed she was a fellow demon who had come to seduce me. A succubus in the most innocuous sense of the word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that moment, I had wanted to do nothing more than devour her. To tear her apart in the most wonderful ways imaginable. To feel her body writhing beneath mine as I brought her to orgasm again and again, her pretty mouth letting out soft moans. To hear my name on her lips as her blunt, human nails rake down the skin of my back, the control of her body having fully lost itself in the sensation. To feel my own release paint her insides white. I had prided myself once on my ability to resist temptation, even against my own nature as a demon -- but I could not help but become undone at the sight of her loveliness. Despite the guilt --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sudden warmth carves a path down my palm. I pull myself back into the present, forcing myself to focus on the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a rather nasty, painful cut on my thumb. The blood spills into the bandages. I watch with horror as the skin does not immediately knit itself back together, the wound remaining a fresh, vivid crimson.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>The hours pass by much quicker than I expected. While the other kitchen staff are allowed nearly an hour of a break for lunch, lower servants such as I have only been given half an hour’s worth. The higher-ranking chefs couldn’t be bothered to do something as lowly as peel potatoes and chop onions, after all. I make a note to increase the pay and rest hours of the castle servants once I return to Lord Diavolo’s castle. There are only twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds until I must return to the kitchens. Twenty-seven minutes and forty-two seconds for me to scout the servants’ halls and whatever else I can find.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so I make haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maria’s instructions had been vague, given her general unfamiliarity of Sanctum’s layout -- but they are enough. The marble corridors, great columns, and alabaster sculptures pass by in a blur. My eyes flicker towards endless halls and gatherings of various servants as I make my way towards what should be the laundry room, paying little mind to the vicious, judgmental gazes of the paintings as I pass. Even with the aid of the Apple of Lies, there lies enough power left in the paintings for the forms to sense my presence. Given my innate sense of time, it is all too easy to discern the thoughts of the silent works of art, their words echoing in the back of my mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Impostor! Impostor! </span>
  </em>
  <span>a plump, painted cherub wants to cry out. Its stare is both hateful and scathing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This one is an impostor!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sinful, abhorrent demon,</span>
  </em>
  <span> another wishes to spit. If the alabaster sculpture could shift its features or throw its voice, it would. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you rot in the ashes of your own guilt. Have you no shame?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are but a simple, loathsome creature,</span>
  </em>
  <span> says the carving of Samson, one of the Celestial Realm’s greatest demon-slayers. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who were you to play god? Who were you to make her suffer for your own ends? The human hates you! Detests you! Loathes you with every fiber of her being!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Or perhaps it is only my imagination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>True to Maria’s words, a relief of an archangel stands just outside of the laundry hall. The sounds of splashing water and falling garments can be heard from within. I stride just to the threshold of the room, catching sight of a ruddy-faced angel. He stands on the highest most step of a ladder and reaches towards a clothing line that has been strung up high on the ceiling. A sopping wet garment and a pair of pins are in his hands. I knock on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angel nearly falls off the ladder. The pair of pins clatter onto the floor, the garment meeting the surface with a squelch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He regards me, eyes wide. “You -- you --” he stammers angrily, clutching the ladder, “-- you could have killed me, you idiot! Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did knock.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I meant!” The angel looks with frustration towards the fallen garment. He begins to clamber down the ladder, each step prompting another creak from the rickety object. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. The head laundress will have my neck for this, I assure you, and I’ll be sure to mention --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m looking for someone named Maria,” I lie. “Do you know where she is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises a bushy brow. “Maria?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frizzy hair, frail, stands at approximately this height.” I gesture with my hands. “Have you seen her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He taps a sole finger on his chin, his free hand holding himself in place on the ladder. “Frizzy hair, you said?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must be talking about the little one, then. The head laundress sent her out back to gather some water for the washing.” He juts his chin towards the end of the room. A painted door stands wide open, the rays of sunlight nearly blinding me as I look towards it. “Don’t expect info like that to come free, though. In exchange for nearly killing me, lad, you can --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m already halfway to the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sunlight nearly blinds me as I step outside, flooding my vision with pure white. I find myself blinking in the aftermath, shielding my eyes against the sun. Thankfully, the effects do not last long. It is only nine seconds and twelve milliseconds before I am able to fully discern the image before me, the overgrown flora nearly obscuring the path. The nearly hidden path seems to have experienced little, if any, tending, reflecting only a few other areas of Sanctum. Areas that are less likely to be seen by high-ranking officials tend to be either under construction or completely unattended. Even the great hanging garden at the heart of Sanctum appears to have just experienced the fruits of the gardeners’ labor -- an aspect that the pale creature had checked on the first day of our arrival.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That indicates one of two options: one, the new empress has little control over her servants and people, thus leading them to be disobedient; two, the new empress has just come publicly into her position and has had little opportunity to exercise her power. If it were the latter -- which I would assume it is, given the general lack of unrest -- that would further indicate an unsteady balance of power amongst high-ranking officials.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If the new empress wants to keep her head, she’ll have to rule with an iron fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I continue onto the path, deftly avoiding the brambles and clumps of thorny flowers that seem to lunge at my feet. Five minutes and forty-one seconds later, the path finally opens into something a bit more spacious. A dry well sits in the middle of the space, a bucket having been long abandoned beside the stone structure. The sounds of activity can be heard beyond the weathered walls of the buildings that surround me. I press forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sounds of activity, as it would turn out, originate from a rather extensive training yard. Despite its size, however, as well as my own biases towards those of the angelic persuasion, I must admit that its design is rather clever. The training yard is divided into exactly three levels, each of which is populated by a number of recruits testing the true might of their weapons. Swords ring out rather noisily against spears; another group trains with a smaller set of daggers. A stairwell leads up to each level, allowing convenient access to the space, while an observation deck sits some distance from the highest level. My gaze flickers instinctively towards the observation deck, inspecting the figures that stand there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My eyes widen at the sight of the pale creature. A rather thick veil covers her visage, creating a shadow -- but it is obvious that she is having great difficulty discerning the finer details of the training. Her pink pupils shiver and waver under the assault of sunlight, and she squints. A slightly shorter angel stands beside her, her skin a deep, rich umber. A number of painted designs trail what skin is visible through her light robes, the fabric dyed surprisingly a vivid collage of orange and gold. Her long, braided hair is beset with gold coils. She lifts her hand to her mouth as she laughs, the multiple rings on her fingers gleaming under the sun, and her teeth --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pause. I have never seen such a sharp, fearsome maw on an angel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Barbatos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turn towards the noise, despite the nearly inaudible quality of it. Maria stands by a well that is situated on the far end of the training yard, hoisting a  sizable bucket of water under her arm. A number of curls fall from her low bun, making her appear disheveled, but she strangely shows no other signs of effort. Then again, the shadow created by the awning above does much to obscure her form. Her sudden vigor is likely my imagination.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What are you doing here?</span>
  </em>
  <span> she mouths.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Aren’t you supposed to be in the kitchen?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I tap my wrist, miming a wristwatch. She nods in understanding, positioning the bucket of water at her hip as she begins to make her way towards me from the well. Given the odd structure of the training grounds, she manages to pass where it is cooler in the shade.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tomorrow,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she mouths once more. As if I would forget. She manages the steps quickly, spilling only some of the water over the edge of the bucket. I am only vaguely aware of the racket of the training yard as Maria begins to near me. </span>
  <em>
    <span> If --</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I sense the shift in the air before I hear the scream. The sharp reverberation of a blade, passing wildly through the air. The gasp of an onlooking recruit as they turn to witness the disaster that will be, their own reflexes and speed too underdeveloped to make a difference. My eyes only catch the vestiges of the image as the blade moves towards Maria, the human continues unaware down the steps, the balance of the bucket occupying her thoughts at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lunge for her. The blade nicks my cheek as it passes by, slicing open the flesh -- then it is embedding itself audibly into the column beside us. Maria squeaks as she falls beneath me, releasing the bucket. It is only a moment before we are both soaked in its contents. I wrap a bandaged hand behind her head before we can both fall against the stone, disregarding the pain that is to come. It is, as anticipated, as unpleasant as I thought it would be: the flesh of my hand nearly tears itself open upon impact, the cut on my hand reopening within the confines of the bandages, and I can just barely see the blossoming of crimson. No matter. Maria’s head has not met the stone. Her body has likely produced no more than a few bruises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is six seconds and twenty-one milliseconds before I pull myself away from her. One hand propped up against the stone, the other cradling her head. Her eyes are still wide with shock, the dark, coiled strands sticking her forehead, but upon inspection I discern that she is unharmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I breathe a sigh of relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a clamor before us. I look in its direction, curious -- only to see the empress making her way down the stairs in her finery, the gold coils clinking against one another as she does so. A portion of her robes are gathered beneath her fingers, allowing her to move with haste. Combined with her many rings and golden bracelets, however, it is a wonder how her pace has not slowed from the sheer weight of her jewelry. Even more surprising is the worry that is etched on her features. The pale creature follows close behind, nearly soundless as she glides down one stair to another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you two alright?” the empress asks, stopping a mere distance from our fallen bodies. Her robes meet the stone once more as she releases them, falling with a hush. Her golden eyes -- the form of which also seems a bit strange, I note -- inspect both Maria and I thoroughly. They widen at the sight of my cheek, which has now been fully drenched in its own blood. “You are wounded, good angel!” she cries, bringing a hand to her mouth. The empress turns to the pale creature. “Oh, Gallatha -- Gallatha, my dear, come closer -- this one is wounded!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pale creature, Gallatha, nods. “It would appear that he is. I will send for a healer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Send for the best one that we have, my dear,” she orders. “What if he expires?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Divinity, I am sure that he will not expire at this very moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before I can react, the empress pulls me from my position and back onto my feet with astounding ease. She reaches for Maria as well, searching her for injuries as she does so, and frowns at the sight of lacerations on her knees and elbows. Maria fidgets awkwardly beneath her inspection, clearly unsure of how to react to the overbearing empress’ attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face flushes, her eyes quickly averting themselves from the empress’ gaze. “My -- My Divinity, I’m pretty sure that Boris and I are --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, nonsense!” She ruffles Maria’s hair with ringed fingers, smiling with the grace of a benign monarch. “There’s no need to be so reserved, my dear girl. The days of that horrid system are now gone. I will ensure that the recruits are duly reprimanded for their carelessness. My advisor will ensure that you two are treated in the infirmary.” She turns to the pale creature. “Gallatha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gallatha steps forward. “Of course, My Divinity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cannot help but stare in disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to what Maria could remember in limbo, the coup d’etat had seemingly been the work of one ravenous, powerful beast. A golden creature had stormed into the throne room one day, interrupting a private meeting between God and his council members. The grand doors had slammed against the marble walls with such ferocity that none could help but stare at the intrusion, the sound giving the act a sense of finality. The air of an execution. It was only after a moment that God had dared to speak from his throne.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Begone, foul creature!</span>
  </em>
  <span> he had ordered, rising to his feet. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You have no business here. Leave this place, and you shall leave here alive. Stay, and I shall smite you until you are no more than scorched earth!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The creature had only tilted its head in a curious manner, its teeth clicking together in terrible humor.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Is that so?</span>
  </em>
  <span> the creature had said, the sound of its precious stones and many golden coils echoing in the hall. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will you smite me, truly? You, an insect who dares to place himself above the affairs of men and beasts? You, a cowardly beast who has become obsessed with power? You are nothing more than a false idol. Your throne is no more worth than a bed of mud.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the great creature had thrown back its head and laughed, its maw shining in the divine light. God had ordered his guards to seize the blasphemous creature, demanding that it be executed at once. Declaring it to be an affront to the Celestial Realm itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had neither the foresight nor the knowledge to realize what this creature was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The creature took God by the collar, dashed him against his own throne, and devoured him whole. All was silent for a moment, the screams of the desperate being dissipating to the air. The council, who had for so long revelled in the absolute power and control over the caste of the Celestial Realm, could only watch with horror. And then the golden, wondrous creature had turned to the council with an all-consuming hunger, licking its chops, and the throne room regressed into chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rich, sweet blood, pooling on the marble. Lumps and limbs scattered about, the bodies having been long torn asunder. The golden creature had lapped at the remnants, its maw a deep, vivid crimson. And then it had plucked the crown from the marble, the precious metal stained with the blood of its former owner, and settled upon the grand throne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all that Maria could not remember of her time in limbo, given her state, she had told me these things with the utmost confidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so the kind, generous empress before me cannot possibly be the one who had staged the coup d’etat. She cannot be anything more than a figurehead. I find myself searching the empress’ smile before she is escorted away by her guards, searching for any signs of that terrible maw. Yet there is nothing but the image of her plump, smiling cheeks, her teeth very decidedly not sharp and horrible, her genuine, kind gaze, and her array of golden adornments.</span>
</p><p>
  <strong>END OF PART ONE</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. SEPTEMBER 29TH: 12h 09m 01s 28ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maria winces as the healer wraps the gauze about her neck, nearly lifting a hand to the wounded area, but the healer smacks her hand away before she can do so. Gives her quite the debilitating frown. It is only when Maria tries to raise her hand again to the wounded area that the healer becomes rougher in her technique. Given my current state as a lowly servant in Sanctum -- certainly a station that I have not grown accustomed to -- I can do nothing but watch Maria squirm and wriggle beneath the healer’s ministrations. While I would find such a reaction amusing under normal circumstances, I cannot help but feel a sense of guilt towards the need for such assistance.</p><p>In the Devildom, I would have caught the presence of her spilled blood in an instant. In the Devildom, I would have been more than capable of preventing harm to come to her in such a manner. The incident would have been nothing more than a bout of clumsiness on her part -- one which I would have teased her relentlessly about afterwards.</p><p>It seems that my senses have dulled in the Celestial Realm.</p><p>The healer begins to tuck away her scissors and the rest of her supplies, satisfied with her work on the wound. “As long as you don’t take up a new habit of bear wrestling, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” says the healer. “Just try not to fall like that again. Can’t guarantee that the wound will stay closed up if you do that.”</p><p>“I’ll try not to.”</p><p>“I would hope so,” says the healer, snorting. “Your boyfriend here may not like the nasty scar on you if you do that.”</p><p>She flushes. “He’s -- he’s not my --”</p><p>The door slams open some distance behind us, drawing our attention. It is enough to halt the rosiness that threatens to overtake her cheeks -- not that I would have minded -- and the healer regards the angel that passes through the threshold with an expression of disdain. The angel bows once before her before speaking.</p><p>“The steward has requested your aid in the third sector,” says the angel, keeping her single pair of eyes set on the ground. “If you would graciously attend to us, it would be much appreciated.”</p><p>The healer frowns. “Do you not see that I have someone to attend to at the moment?”</p><p>“I do, miss.”</p><p>“Then why go to the trouble?”</p><p>“The steward said it was imperative that you came.” The angel keeps her gaze locked elsewhere. “There’s a war coming our way, so he thought it best that you and the other healers --”</p><p>A sharp intake of breath. The healer gives the angel a rather withering look, forcing the words to catch in her throat -- but it is obvious that she has no choice but to acquiesce, given her station. An unpleasant memory of the steward staring blatantly at Maria crosses my mind, inciting only the barest of grimaces to come onto my features, and I do my best to disregard the thought. There are more important tasks at hand.</p><p>Lord Diavolo will have a war on his hands. That much is certain. If even the lowest servant is aware of what is to come, then it is all too likely that there exists a popular support for the act. A strong sentiment. While it is still difficult for me to fathom that such a kindly, benign empress is capable of leading something so violent -- much less anything that Maria had mentioned in her memory of the coup d’etat -- I would be a fool to disregard such information. As would Maria. And if such a plan has already been put in motion, then it is very well possible that --</p><p>I find myself pinching the bridge of my nose as the healer leaves, a headache beginning to throb at the back of my skull. A rather irregular occurrence that I can only attribute to the sun-blighted air of the Celestial Realm. The healer makes herself scarce after a moment, says something dismissive towards Maria and I regarding our schedules, then follows after the lesser angel. The rather tall doors close quietly behind them.</p><p>And so Maria and I are left alone in the clinic.</p><p>The awkwardness is palpable. While it is certainly not the first time that Maria and I have been left alone together -- seeing how Lord Diavolo tasked me with her month-long recuperation -- there is an undeniable tension that stands between the both of us. An unspoken distance. Maria shifts somewhere behind me, unintentionally pushing off some cover of the bed that she sits upon.</p><p>Finally, she speaks.</p><p>“I know I’ve asked enough of you already, but …” she trails off.</p><p>“I have no issue with taking action now.” I offer her a sidelong glance, standing a respectable distance away from the bed. The curtain that separates it from the other empty beds of the clinic rustles as my shoulder brushes against material. “The Lord would have no qualms against more direct methods if it means he can keep the peace.”</p><p>Maria frowns. “But would that make any difference? We only have six days at most here, Barbatos. Maybe even less. And we don’t even know anything at the moment -- why they want a war, why there was even a coup d’etat, or even who really is in charge here. I want to stop what’ll happen just as much as you, but it would be stupid to act in a way that’ll attract attention.”</p><p>“We know who the empress is and what she looks like,” I counter. “Neither the circumstances nor the reasons why they want a war matters. Information isn’t any good unless we do something with it.”</p><p>“And if we get caught? What then?” Her fingers curl slightly into the thin sheets, her worries coming to the surface. “That angel the other night -- if they even knew to look for someone or something suspicious, that means that someone knows we’re here. Or at least that Sanctum has been infiltrated.”</p><p>“You know where the servants’ quarters are. If such an outcome does come to pass, then I would rather you escaped with --”</p><p>“I’m not leaving here without you,” she says, cutting me off.</p><p>Again there is that throbbing, unpleasant sensation at the back of my head. I stifle a sigh. “I believe that our objective should be subject to change,” I affirm. “If they are already preparing for war, then there is little possibility for a peaceful resolution.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean that we should go around sabotaging things. Not if someone is aware of suspicious activity.” She crosses her arms. It does little to lend itself to her point, given her complete lack of an intimidating form. “I say we wait.”</p><p>“I say we find a compromise.”</p><p>“I’m the head of this mission,” she says, “and our only objective is to understand who the leader is, why they want a war, and how they intend to do it. We don’t have much time. Gathering information is much more valuable than sabotaging things that they can easily replace.”</p><p>I allow a frown to come onto my features. “I’m the prince’s right-hand. Our underlying objective is to stop the realms from breaking into a war.”</p><p>Maria chooses not to speak, instead fixing me with a stern expression. Unwilling to back down from her argument. Unfortunately for her, neither am I.</p><p>A number of skylights allow sunlight to filter down from above. It lends an almost ethereal effect on Maria, her curls once more seeming to form a halo around her head. Despite the stark white of the marble and the linens of the curtains behind her, her cheeks nearly appear rosy in the light. Alive. Her skin has somehow returned its full richness, the sickly pallor that had plagued her in the Devildom no longer apparent. Something like blood pulses through her veins. Her breaths are calm and steady; not once have I witnessed her pausing to catch her breath. Not once have I noticed that habitual wince, the memory of the pain and her battered soul weighing down upon her. The sunlight itself appears to gather around her, embracing the form that her soul has become, and kisses the warm brown of her skin.</p><p>I realize, for the first time, that her form is no longer translucent. Were I a halfwit, I would have believed her to still be alive.</p><p>“On one condition,” she says, drawing me away from my reverie. I force myself back into the present. “If -- if you promise me you’ll do it, I’ll consider making a compromise.”</p><p>While the notion is hardly one that I should humor, given my station in the Devildom, I decide to do so anyway. Only because it is her. Maria looks at me with that dogged determination, that damning, endearing nature, and I can feel a ghost of a smile come over my mouth.</p><p>“State your condition, then.”</p><p>Maria’s eyes are sharp. Intense, in spite of herself. “Corrupt me.”</p><p>The answer leaves my mouth before I can even consider the possibility, my sentiment lending itself completely in the reflexive response. It is one that requires no reasoning.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But -- but why?” she protests. Her small feet touch the floor as she stands to full height, and she steps towards me. Her expression does little to belie her frustration. “You -- back then, when I came back, you agreed to. You said you would. I’m not saying it has to be now.”</p><p>“You’re right,” I concede, if only partially. “And there’s no need for it to ever occur.”</p><p>Her hands tighten into fists. “I -- I don’t have any power like this. If I don’t keep myself tied to here and now, I’m useless.”</p><p>“I’m well aware.”</p><p>“Then why?”</p><p>The process would rip her apart. Incinerate what remains of her soul into ashes. The act of forming a pact with a human is already a test of one’s constitution. In the best-case scenario, forming a pact with a human soul -- one completely separated from a body -- would place her through an excruciating amount of pain. I would not be willing to subject her to such an experience again. In the worst-case and most likely scenario, forming a pact with Maria as she is would reduce her to a mere absence. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. And while it would only be natural for a soul to eventually lose itself eventually in the long, tedious stretches of time and nothingness -- an inevitable outcome -- I find that I am completely unwilling to lose her once more.</p><p>I am pathetic in every sense of the word, truly. Even now I cannot stop myself from being selfish.</p><p>"What would it take?" she demands.</p><p>"Nothing. Corrupting you is out of the question."</p><p>Maria opens her mouth to speak, a protest on her tongue -- but closes it almost as quickly as she had opened it. Decides against the act of protesting. Or perhaps it is that she simply sees it as a futile endeavor. Even a human soul such as herself should know the consequences of such an act. And so she simply remains silent, the determination rendering itself into a stony silence, and roots herself in place. Her dark gaze searches mine, looking for signs of weakness or frailty within my resolve. I keep myself guarded.</p><p>The quiet is deafening. The light shines so brilliantly from behind Maria that I am forced to squint upon her solid form, my eyes not quite adjusted to the brightness of the Celestial Realm just yet. The blighted air of the Celestial runs thick in my lungs, threatening to suffocate me. Neither of us are willing to speak.</p><p>After a grueling twenty seconds and thirty-four milliseconds, she dares to break the silence.</p><p>“I still -- I still can’t forgive you, you know.” Her voice is low, her tone only barely controlled. Her curls bounce as she shakes her head just slightly. “I’ve been thinking about it all this time. About everything. If you can at least explain to me why you did it, then I’ll leave it alone.”</p><p>It is the first time that the topic has been brought to my attention after her death. Memories of horrible things -- Maria screaming <em>I hate you</em> over and over again in my nightmares, that churlish Mammon’s declaration of just how inadequate I had been in protecting her -- begin to flood my thoughts.</p><p><em>But of course she remembers,</em> I chide myself.<em> How could she forget?</em></p><p>It could very well be an attempt to coerce me into doing as she demands through guilt. A method of wielding my own conscience against me. Considering her rather forthright personality, however, I doubt that that could ever be the case.</p><p>I am not quite sure what I expected. Or if I expected anything at all, really. Had I hoped for her to never address the grievances I had inflicted upon her? Had I thought her to be so perfectly forgiving as to never speak of the day of the summit again? Had I, in my horrible search for my own pleasure, become so accustomed to disregarding the consequences of my own actions that I could no longer fathom them?</p><p>Whatever the case may be, it does little to change the fact of the matter. I had crossed unspeakable boundaries time and time again, and she had paid dearly for it. I cannot possibly believe myself worthy of any kindness on her part.</p><p>The guilt gnaws at me from within.</p><p>“What I have done to you is unspeakable,” I begin. The words come out with less emotion than I had intended, and I pause for a second to silently curse the natural monotone nature of my voice. “Completely reprehensible. I was selfish, and I was wrong.”</p><p>The image of her before me wavers for a moment. I find myself casting a glance towards my hands, the fair edges of their shape making themselves indefinite in the sunlight. Flickering. Despite my weakness -- I cannot find it within myself to hold her gaze -- I can feel the weight of her eyes on me.</p><p>“I cannot -- no, I do not ever expect for you to forgive me.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“I have hurt you irreparably.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“If you --” I pause, a hand rising to pinch the bridge of my nose, “-- if you hate me, I completely --”</p><p>A sudden warmth envelops my hand. Her small fingers interlace with my own, the rich brown of her skin contrasting with mine. Two seconds and nine milliseconds, and the other hand joins. I only watch as she brings my palm to her cheek and presses her lips to it, eyes closing for only the briefest of moments. A reflection of what I had done unto her before taking her body in such a cruel manner in the kitchen. Strangely, however, I find that the gesture holds no malice at all -- no traces of bitterness can be found in her disposition. No regret, no resentment.</p><p>There is hesitation behind the act, as anticipated. Yet behind that --</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to guilt you into doing something you didn’t want to do,” she mumbles against my palm. Her mouth is so very, very soft. “Now isn’t the time, anyway. I just … wanted to see what you would say after all this time, I guess. It was kinda cruel of me to ask.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“I never meant to make you suffer.” Her image is blurred in my vision. “How long did you ...”</p><p>“A long time,” she says, sighing. “A long, long time. I think I lost count after the tenth or eleventh time I died.”</p><p>My mouth is dry. There are truly no words that would express the true depths of my guilt. Any question that could be spoken into existence --<em> Do you remember dying? Did it hurt? Would you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?</em> -- are answered immediately by my own conscience the moment they make themselves known. Yes, she remembers dying. Yes, it hurt. Dying by blade and blunt trauma and whichever else that bastard decides to inflict upon her could be nothing but the height of suffering for her. No, she would never forgive me.</p><p>For I am a demon, through and through. For I am only a cursed, damned creature, subject my own whims and desires. For I am truly the late demon king’s executioner at heart, forever the mindless, dispassionate torturer that he had intended me to be. Centuries of playing butler for his son would never compare to the millennia spent beheading traitors, dismembering rivals, and flaying his enemies. Drowning my sins in buttercream, layers of pastries, and her – the purity of her soul, her heart, every bit of kindness she had ever shown me -- would never overcome my true nature.</p><p>A period of four milliseconds passes. I remember how I had taken her in the guest room the very first time, her hair spilled over the white sheets. Her cheek is warm.</p><p>
  <em>Barbatos.</em>
</p><p>A period of two seconds and fifteen milliseconds passes. I remember how her nails had raked against my back as I pushed myself into her over and over again, muffling her cries amongst the nightblooms. There is a tug at my hand.</p><p>
  <em>Barbatos?</em>
</p><p>A period of five seconds and ten milliseconds passes. I remember how my teeth had sunk into the delicate skin of her shoulder as I released within her, the remnants of it dripping from her entrance. I am being pulled lower.</p><p>“Barbatos!”</p><p>The sudden shift in my perspective -- of being lower, angled differently -- violently jerks me back into the present moment. Her lips, soft and warm, press lightly against my forehead. Forcing me to look upon her once more in a manner that is neither framed by my guilt nor tainted by my hunger for her innocence. A breeze from an open area in the skylight comes in, and a halo of curls brushes against my cheek in recompense.</p><p>The curtains of the infirmary bed flutter. The sunlight streaming in from the skylights nearly blinds me, swathed around her as they are. Her touch is so pure that it burns me.</p><p>Under the light of the Celestial Realm, she kisses me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. she kisses me.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The kiss only lasts the span of three seconds and fifty-five milliseconds. When she does pull away -- taking with her that strange warmth, the solidity of her form, and the overwhelming sensation of her skin against mine -- I can only stare dumbfounded at her slightly flushed visage. Frozen in the wake of the act. It takes me a second to realize that her fingers have wrapped them in my shirt in the effort of bringing me to her, given her current stance on her toes.</p><p>If I had the mind to do so at the moment, I would have gladly frozen us both in time.</p><p>“Glad that got your attention,” she says, releasing me. I do not straighten immediately. “I didn’t know if you could hear me.”</p><p>“That was an unexpected method.” The words tumble from my mouth. She looks upon me with a strange expression, and I immediately regret speaking. “If you would be so kind as to repeat yourself,” I propose, attempting to alleviate the social blunder,“I would appreciate it.”</p><p>Again there is that expression. I curse myself for the monotonous quality of my voice.</p><p>“I said it was enough of an explanation.” Her eyes have already focused themselves elsewhere, the aftermath of her unexpected behavior quickly dismissing itself into another part of her psyche. “We can … talk about it later. After.”</p><p>While Maria does not turn away from me -- the exit is in my direction, after all -- there is a guarded quality to her visage as she begins to head in the direction of the doors. If I were to wait approximately one second and two milliseconds, she would step just within reach. If I were to wait approximately three seconds and ten milliseconds, her shoulder would brush mine as she passed by. If I were to wait six seconds and forty-five milliseconds, she would be too far for me to touch without an awkward effort on my part.</p><p>
  <em>Please don’t go.</em>
</p><p>I find myself reaching for her as her shoulder whispers against mine. The curtains rustle with the suddenness of the movement, and Maria nearly startles away from my grip. In the second that I am able to see her face once more, I register that it bears a strange expression.</p><p>I release her arm almost as quickly as I had reached for it.</p><p>“I -- that was --” I find myself stammering, searching for the words, “-- that was incredibly inappropriate. Please forgive me.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” she mumbles, avoiding my gaze. And yet --</p><p>And yet.</p><p>I simply regard her for a moment, studying what I can see of her visage. Take her gently by the shoulders and spin her around to face me. I lean over to bring myself closer to her eye level, ignoring the ache in my back as I do so. She does not resist my efforts.</p><p>It is a too-familiar expression.</p><p>Her lips are parted just slightly, the rich hue of her skin flushed with the beginnings of arousal. It only deepens under my scrutinization. It is only due to the close proximity that I am able to discern the quickening of her heartbeat, the ichor running through her veins at a nearly impossible pace. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheek as her gaze flickers elsewhere. It is an aspect of her soul that I had completely forgotten – which could only be expected, given the more preoccupying events. Forcing her soul through so many repetitions in time could only yield such a result. Just as she had experienced death time and time again, she had also experienced the heights of pleasure and pain. Just as her mind yearns for the textures and remnants of her time as a living, breathing human to stay grounded, her body yearns for the sensations imprinted upon her. Craves the experience once more, despite itself.</p><p>Lust. Desire. Desperation. Her bearing reveals this and more.</p><p>Despite my absolute guilt, some horrible, twisted part of my conscience celebrates.</p><p>“Stop staring at me like that,” she says through gritted teeth. Her efforts do little to hide her true state. “It’s not -- it’s not what it looks like.”</p><p><em>There is no need to offer more than what is needed,</em> I remind myself. <em>It is merely a measure of necessity.</em></p><p>“I apologize for not addressing your needs earlier.”</p><p>“They aren’t -- I just said that it isn’t --”</p><p>“I would very much like to hear an alternative reason, then,” I deadpan. “While I trust that you’ve taken measures to surround yourself with familiar tastes and textures. I would highly doubt that a place such as this would have anything reminiscent of <em>carajillo</em>.”</p><p>She bites her lip at that, mulling over the proposal. Over the obvious way out of the conversation that I’ve offered to her, should she decide to refuse. An incredibly likely scenario. It is a lengthy twenty-seven seconds and eleven milliseconds of waiting, watching the only vaguely shrouded expression, but then --</p><p>“Just this once,” she says. “Because I need to.”</p><p>Relief floods me. I disregard any other emotion that threatens to overwhelm me, tucking it elsewhere. If this is what she needs, then I would do anything in my power to make it so. After all, what am I but an instrument for her desires? Who am I to deny the indulgence of her pleasure? My personal thoughts on the circumstances matter not. The desire to know any other justification or reasoning that may exist behind the act matter not.</p><p>I would gladly prostrate myself before her for the end of time if she so desired.</p><p>I nod. “Of course, Lady Maria.”</p><p>“You – you don’t have to call me that!” she protests, but it is lighthearted. I can almost pretend that it is the day of the summit, before I had ever burned the trust between us. “We should hurry up. I don’t know when she’s coming back.”</p><p>“Noted.”</p><p>The infirmary is empty, I’m aware, but I do a quick scan of its interior to confirm. Whatever sounds can be heard seem to be far away; there is little chance of other servants happening upon us. The curtains close shut with only the slightest of hushes against the marble flooring. A breeze blows by overhead, bringing yet another wisp of air to tangle into Maria’s curls, and I step forward with hesitation. Maria sits upon the small infirmary bed, her visage wrought with concentration. Deciding upon the exact details of what would be our copulation, I presume. Despite her absolute power in the matter, it appears that she still feels some embarrassment.</p><p>“I want you to kiss me,” she orders. “Like – like you did before, but nicer.”</p><p>And so I acquiesce. It is approximately one second and five millseconds to cross the short distance to the infirmary bed. I cannot help but close my eyes as I press my lips softly to hers – so intense is the sunlight from the a skylights above – and keep my hands positioned respectfully away from her. They brace themselves on both sides of her against the bedframe. It takes only two seconds and forty-seven milliseconds for her to reciprocate: her mouth is but a whisper against mine, her small fingers reaching up to frame the sides of my face. It is an unsurprisingly shy and possibly unenthusiastic response.</p><p>When I pull away, however, her gaze nearly burns through mine.</p><p>“Again,” she orders.</p><p>And so I acquiesce once more. This time, it is she who draws me close. Her fingers interlace themselves into my hair.</p><p>“Again.”</p><p>And so I acquiesce twice more. Her tongue runs across my bottom lip, begging me for entry. I gladly grant it to her. I can taste just the slightest hint of coffee on her tongue.</p><p>“Again.”</p><p>And so I acquiesce thrice more. My name is held like a prayer in the space between us, whispered again and again with each kiss that comes to pass. Her fingers tangle themselves further into my locks, urging me to come closer, and it is not long before I am forced to nearly hover over her. I rest a single knee on the bedframe. My hands come to set themselves tentatively on her shoulders. Each flutter of her eyelashes against my cheek, brush of her fingers against my bare skin, gentle press of her mouth against mine – it burns. Gods above and below, it burns. While I cannot say for certain that it is anything like that of a celestial blaze – much less hellfire – it scorches me all the same.</p><p>The skirt of her work uniform is easy enough to bypass. I trace the folds of her warmth through the thin fabric of her undergarments, searching for the bud of her clit. The soft sigh of pleasure that it elicits is all the encouragement I need. And then it is a minute and thirty-seven seconds of testing the area, waiting for her to refuse or request that we stop. Expecting her to pause the ministrations of my fingers. Five minutes of intensifying my attention, which I use to also attend to myself. Another minute and ten seconds, and I find the courage to slip past the thin fabric and delve into her depths.</p><p>I am only mildly surprised that she is already slick, as if she had been waiting all this time for me to act upon her in such a manner. Which is very well a ridiculous assumption. This is only a side-effect of the experiences I had imprinted upon her over the course of the timelines I had created and destroyed. A mere symptom of the cruelty I had inflicted upon her. If she were to truly have a choice in the matter – any other method of grounding herself to this time and place in the Celestial Realm – I’m quite sure that she would have avoided this altogether.</p><p>She muffles her moans against my chest as I begin to probe deeper into her, curling my fingers inside her channel over and over again. I am thankful for only this result of my cruelty: it is only due to the repetitions of the timelines that I am able to bring her so close to her breaking point with ease. It is only due to the criminal acts I had committed upon her that I am able to stop just short of her release. The beginnings of a protest forms on her lips each time I halt my ministrations. A whine builds in her throat. Her body squirms slightly.</p><p>A more cruel, more instrinsic part of my conscience desperately desires to make her beg as I once did. To treat her as I once had, using her body for only my own pleasure. To make her mine, to break her, to force her to look at me and only me.</p><p><em>You are a demon!</em> The deepest, most intrinsic part of my consience snarls. It claws from within the confines of my mind, attempting to batter me into submission. <em>A demon does not simply desire. A demon does not simply wait. A demon does not act in such a pathetic manner. She should be yours! Yours! Break her, shatter her bones, cut out her eyes and tongue – do whatever it takes!</em></p><p>I sorely deny that part of myself the luxury of doing so.</p><p>Her impatience is painfully obvious. It is takes eight seconds for Maria to force me to switch positions with her on the bed, five seconds to slide down my trousers just enough to allow my length to spring free, and twenty seconds for her to try to figure out just how to position herself above me. Given her rather short, slight frame, it proves to be a difficult endeavor. Seven seconds and twenty-one milliseconds later, I find myself taking her by the waist and completing the task for her myself.</p><p>I embrace her before she can have the chance to cry out, closing my hand around her mouth. An arm wrapped around her waist secures her in place, preventing her from simply shifting out of the position or knocking us both off the edge of the infirmary bed. Keeping her in place as her body shudders, as her channel twitches, and as I push past the slight resistance at the entrance. Evidently she has not copulated with anyone else in some time.</p><p>Despite it only have been six days since her return to the Devildom – the period in which she would have had no access to anyone else during her recuperation -- I feel a twisted sense of victory at that.</p><p>A groan slips past my lips. Maria peels my hand off her mouth.</p><p>“That was mean.”</p><p>“My apologies.” I brush a stray curl away from her cheek and hold her face in my hands, feeling the solidity of her form. Again I register that her skin bears no translucence here. Her gaze holds mine for only fifteen milliseconds, and the flush on her skin deepens. “I only presumed that you needed aid in your endeavor.”</p><p>She frowns. “I ... could have done it without your help.”</p><p>“But wouldn’t you agree that this method was more efficient?”</p><p>“That doesn’t – ah!”</p><p>I cut her off by shifting beneath her, lodging my length deeper inside of her core. A simple whim to satisfy the more cruel aspect of my desires. A method of preventing myself from falling wholeheartedly into my intrinsic demonic nature. The halfhearted glare she offers me serves as further as an aide, the momentary loss of control having clearly irked her. Good.</p><p>As if spurred on by my own boldness – I had effectively agreed to relinquish all control to her, after all – Maria begins and holds a rather agressive pace, her hips grinding into mine. I rest my hands on her hips, not quite allowing her satiate herself just yet. Not quite angling myself in the manner that would force her to a violent, sudden orgasm. While I have contributed greatly to her experiences and knowledge of such a topic, it is clear that she desires to control the entirety of the situation. That she intends to simply do what is needed to keep herself grounded in this time and place. Aside from my current position as her partner on this mission, I am currently only an instrument for her desires. A tool for her to use alongside her damned determination.</p><p>I deserve nothing more than this, truly – and yet I still find that I must remind myself that this means nothing in the wake of our relationship. This act means nothing in regards to forgiveness or intimacy. She is not mine.</p><p>Her hands press on mine, urging me to take a hold of her hips, and I gladly do so. Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds later, I am privy to the lustful expression that takes over her visage. The flutter of her eyelids, the parting of her mouth as she pants, the almost pained nature of her features. Her nails dig into my back. Her teeth scrape against my skin when she attempts to muffle her gasps, nearly biting down. For now – and only now – the barriers that I have incited between us have all but vanished into thin air. I would never have it again.</p><p>I wish I hadn’t taken notice of that.</p><p>My true form claws at me from the inside, screaming to be released. Demanding its freedom. I do not allow it to make itself known. Despite the glamour that the Apple of Lies has provided me, my lack of control when it comes to Maria nearly overwhelms me. The sides of my skull threaten to crack and rupture with the horns of my true self. My tail desires to lash its way out from my tailbone. I can feel my sclera begin to flood with that pitch-black hue, each increment beginning to lace over the image of Maria before me. The bones of my fingers begin to crack and splinter beneath the force of my metamorphosis, and I can just barely keep them from sharpening into claws.</p><p>I want more. I need more. I need everything that she has become and ever will be to be mine. I need every aspect of her to belong to me. Only me. I want everything that has ever defined her to be mine. Every hour, every minute, every second, and every millisecond of the day. I want to drag her down to the depths of Hell and defile her over and over again. Above all else, I want to make her mine. I want to sully and twist and corrupt her until she can be nothing but mine. Mine. Mine. Mine and mine alone --</p><p>Maria places a soft kiss against my nose. I blink.</p><p>My vision is laced with tendrils of pitch-black and overcast with shadow. There exists no possibility that Maria cannot perceive that I have nearly metamorposized into my true form. She smiles at me in spite of it. Presses another soft kiss upon my forehead.</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>“You don’t have to hold back,” she says through the haze. “Just because I need to do this doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. I would – I think I would hate myself if you didn’t.”</p><p>My voice is murky, even to my own ears. “You don’t understand what --”<br/>“No, I do.” She cuts me off, her tone stern. “Trust me.”</p><p><em>You don’t understand what you’re offering to me,</em> I feel inclined to protest. <em>You don’t understand the consequences. You don’t know what I’ll do to you. You can’t possibly be sure that I won’t hurt you.</em></p><p>Her gaze flickers with something unreadable. Something just barely hidden within the dark pools of her eyes. It lasts for the span of forty-two milliseconds, which should be more than enough time to discern the emotion – but the blighted essence of the Celestial Realm has done much to dull my senses. Other than the obvious negative aspect of emotion, I cannot identify what it is otherwise. Vexation, perhaps? Irritation at having to consent to this act with one such as I? Some degree of revulsion?</p><p>Or is it heartache?</p><p>I blink, and it is gone.</p><p>Maria places a trail of fleeting kisses along the line of my jaw. Delicate fingers holding my visage in place, each working to tip my face gently to hers. It is a question, not a demand. A request, not an order. While I cannot quite understand her reasons – I cannot see through her at all, truly – I do recognize the genuine nature behind the request. Her gaze is quiet. Unobtrusive.</p><p>And so I acquiesce.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. SEPTEMBER 29TH: 7h 29m 50s 01ms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You shouldn’t push yourself too much. Bad for the body, even for a young thing like you.” The cook casts a rather sympathetic glance towards the bandages on my hands, hand only slightly poised before her. She can’t quite decide whether she believes it necessary to intervene just yet, it would seem, which is just as well. There is an impressive amount of dishes that need washing. “We should have told you about that,” she adds with an apologetic tone. “We try to avoid using the well near the training grounds because of – well, I suppose you know.”</p><p>I certainly do.</p><p>While it is only expected for one of such low rank – one such as I, given the current circumstances of my disguise – the tasks that I have been assigned are rather tedious. Mind-numbing, in fact. I make a note to replace all the white porcelain dishes in Lord Diavolo’s castle with something more tasteful. More interesting to the eye. The endless, monochromatic environment of the Celestial Realm has done nothing but only incite an even greater level of suffering. Despite the incredibly short duration of time that Maria and I have spent in the Celestial Realm, I find myself missing the extravagance and rich hues of the Devildom. Spun shadows, unending darkness, frigid nights – I find that I yearn for everything of my homeland. Even the sight of those hideous doors to the throne room would be welcome.</p><p>Then again, perhaps I have become too accustomed to the sight of it. Depictions of monsters such as the One Who Hungers and the Mother of Many can be considered nothing but horrifying, after all. And perhaps the strain of the Celestial Realm on my form has begun to truly wear away my faculties of rational thought.</p><p>“Think you’ll be going to the celebration?” says the cook, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “The Divinity did say it was open to all of us, that little thing of hers, but I can’t see how she thinks she’ll just eradicate the caste overnight. A little too optimistic, if you ask me.”</p><p>I pull my thoughts together. “Likely not.”</p><p>The cook raises a brow at that as she takes the clean plate from me. Takes a moment to wipe it dry. “You don’t have to agree with me just ‘cause I oversee what you do. S’just us here.”</p><p>“I find it a bit confusing as well,” I add, following her line of thought. Agreeing with her view would likely encourage her to share more information in regards to the topic. “Certainly there are consequences.”</p><p>The cook grins. “Well, would you look at that!” she exclaims, giving me a a clap of approval on my shoulder. “Finally, a young’un that thinks like the rest of us. From that advisor that follows her around like a puppy to the rest of her cabinet – tell you what, I don’t trust the lot of them. Not one bit. She should be glad she hasn’t ended up like the other one, really, what with all the radical things she’s been trying to put in people’s heads. Doesn’t work like that.”</p><p>“The other one?” I echo.</p><p>“Yes, the other one!” The cook gestures vaguely with her hands. “Have you been living under a rock? Or – well, I suppose I can’t blame you. Little people from the sixth district probably don’t get too much info their way.”</p><p>The wounds beneath my bandages protest as I pick up yet another piece of porcelain dishware, and I nearly drop it into the tub of suds. Thankfully, the cook doesn’t seem to notice. I shake my head in response as I hand her another clean dish.</p><p>She tuts. “You didn’t hear it from me, but rumor has it that God didn’t fall like the rest of his kind do. Didn’t just fizzle out after an eternity.”</p><p>I feign surprise. “Is that true?”</p><p>“I can tell you for certain that he didn’t.” Her eyes blaze with an excitement that only gossip can bring about. “They say the Divinity just showed up one day and took the throne from ‘im. That every last one of the council got eaten up by some monster. I know that bumpkins like you from the sixth district don’t know this, but Sanctum’s pretty damned difficult to get into. Whatever came in and disposed of everyone must have been one hell of a beast, if you’ll excuse my language. The guards and Virtues here don’t go down without a fight.”</p><p>Silently, I wonder if the two angels that had attended the program -- Luke and Simeon, if I recall correctly -- had perished alongside the other servants and high-ranking angels in Sanctum. If so, then it would certainly explain their inability to attend the summit.</p><p>My thoughts flash back to the bizarre memory that Maria had tried to explain to me in the Devildom. A beast, a coup d’etat, and a heart in the depths of the Celestial Realm. I had dismissed it as a mere nightmare once, given the state in which I had received her. Some strange scene that her imagination had occurred. It certainly wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. Being trapped in limbo for prolonged periods of time could yield paranoia. Hallucinations. A more fragile state of mind. At the time, I truly had considered her haste to be nothing more than the product of it. The six days, fifty-nine minutes, and seventeen seconds that Maria should have been using to recover were instead spent in the castle library, her fingers frantically searching for some answer within the texts. Her eyes flickering to and fro as she scanned the pages. Just as I had dismissed her request to be corrupted as trivial, I had completely disregarded any reason she may have had for doing such strange things.</p><p>I see now that her recollection possessed merit.</p><p>The cook’s eyes search mine. “Bet you’re wondering who did it, aren’t you?”</p><p>“... You would be correct.”</p><p>“I’d wager a guess that that that traitorous pansy did it,” she declares, placing a dry dish into the cupboard with a bit too much gusto. It nearly cracks. “He hasn’t been the same ever since the Divinity took the throne, but I’d bet my left foot that it’s all hogwash. They must’ve worked together somehow.”</p><p>“And what are the chances that they didn’t?” I ask. The question comes out too quickly, but the cook doesn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“Slim to none. If that Seraphim bastard dares to show up to the Divinity’s celebration, that’ll be more than damning evidence that he was in on it.”</p><hr/><p>The corridors of Sanctum glow with an ethereal light, even under the shroud of darkness. Even within the clutches of shadows. Yet perhaps that is something that can be attributed to the many crystalline fixtures that line the halls of its inner reaches. Uniform crystals line the inner reaches, each emitting an equally consistent amount of light. It would seem that the angels, sun-blighted as they are, hesitate to be without their precious radiance even during the long hours of the night. Nearly every hall that I pass bears some guard or other surveillance system, the shadows of which dance strangely against the high walls. No door seems to be without surveillance. If there is an increment of space that appears to be without surveillance, it would likely cease to be within matter of minutes.</p><p>Despite the apparent openness preached by the Divinity and her cabinet, there would seem to be a greater level of unrest than I had anticipated. Such a severe level of security would indicate no other reason. However she may have been placed on the throne – I certainly cannot imagine her accomplishing such a feat alone – it would appear that the divine creatures of the Celestial Realm do not bow so easily to change.</p><p>Which is just as expected. The Great Celestial War had been an event that even the dormant king could foresee. The fallen brothers’ lack of adherence to the strict principles of the Celestial Realm had been nothing short of jarring. A mere year-long reign could not be expected to change the people overnight. If the Divinity expects the celebration to proceed without incident --</p><p>I sigh. Maria had likely planned to use the chaos of the event to her advantage. Rather, she is planning to do so. If I can find a sufficient amount of information, then it would effectively prevent her from doing something so dangerous.</p><p><em>A heart,</em> she had relayed to me after the act. She had turned away from as she fastened her white blouse, eyes cast away from mine. Rebuilding the wall between us. <em>Find me anything that might be a heart, Luke and Simeon, and something we can use to prove what that their plans are. Doesn’t matter what.</em></p><p>And so the compromise with her had regarded locatingthe two angels, who would likely be valuable allies to our cause. Anything that the Devildom could leverage against them or use to form a treaty. Given the complete failure of the summit, however, I would expect nothing to come of negotiating with such bloodthirsty, righteous creatures. Lord Diavolo and Maria’s sentiments are little more than evidence of their naivety in such matters. A mere fantasy. After the grievances the late demon king had committed unto humanity, the Celestial Realm, and the old gods and beasts, there lies no chance for a peaceful resolution. Aside from that, the notion of a heart existing in such a false, bright place is rather unthinkable.</p><p>I must make haste. There exist only three hours, seven minutes, and ten seconds before I must partake of the Apple of Lies once more.</p><p>My footfalls are heavy, given my lack of familiarity with my disguise. Forcing my body to remain entirely in some human-like ruse incites only discomfort and awkwardness in gait. The necessary measures of immersing myself in shadow, waiting for the guards to pass, and scouting out areas of interest only prolong my task. And then there is that monochromatic color scheme and damned uniformity, the combination of which serve to make Sanctum appear to be more labrynthine than it is.</p><p>The period of an hour, forty-two minutes, and fifty seconds passes. Approximately one hundred and two minutes of stark white walls, glossy marble, and maddeningly homogenous corridors. Approximately six thousand, one hundred, and seventy seconds of avoiding two-faced divine creatures, guards bearing multiple arms, and the occasional Virtue patrolling the halls. Approximately seven hundredths of a full day, nearly all of which I had used to fight off the emergence of my true form. Allowing such an unsightly form to emerge would only attract the guards like moths to a flame – or, in my case, wolves to the lamb. If I were to give into the urge, I would be no better than a pig crawling under the butcher’s knife.</p><p>Twenty minutes and twelve seconds later, I can feel the throb at the sides of my skull. My horns desire to rupture through the flesh and bone.</p><p>Eighteen minutes and thirty-four seconds later, my tail threatens to elongate from my tailbone. My claws crave the cracking of my nails.</p><p>Nine minutes and thirteen seconds later, my vision begins to become entangled with black tendrils and shadow. I can just barely keep my sclera from being overtaken with the darkness.</p><p>Five minutes and one second later, I manage to hide myself within an unguarded alcove of shadow. My true form claws and screams and burns me from within, so immersed am I in the Celestial Realm. The dinner served to the servants had been made of ingredients that not even the Avatar of Gluttony would be able to digest as a demon – and so the wave of nausea that strikes me is almost unbearable. But this is no time to be found. A noise some distance in front of me draws my attention, and I peer through glazed, shadowcast eyes at the image.</p><p>An unobstrusive, plain door. Something I would have easily passed over or dismissed. The shape of it makes it appear to be nearly a part of the wall itself. No guards stand before it. It opens to reveal an interior that is dimly lit – perhaps even only by candles – and I observe as a tall, stately figure steps out. Their steps are but a whisper in the dark.</p><p>My eyes widen.</p><p>Skin white as snow. Hair the color of alabaster. Pink, unfocused pupils. All six of her wings flutter slightly as she walks away from the door. I can just barely discern the shape of something hidden within the room, swathed and swaddled in a white sheet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! Leave a comment, if you would like.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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